Everything You Thought You Wanted
by starrysummernights
Summary: It had been two hours since Sherlock's passionate, yet desperate, whispered confession in the vestibule of the church.
1. Dearly Beloved

John sat and stared, his eyes unfocused, as the countryside flicked past the train window. In the seat across from him, Sherlock had his head leaned back and eyes closed. He'd been asleep almost from the first moment the train began to move, as if days and weeks of exhaustion were finally catching up to him. John glanced at him from the corner of his eye, noting the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, the strain lines about his mouth, the slump of his shoulders, and wanted to wipe it all away, take away the suffering he'd obviously been under that John had dismissed, not understanding, always slow on the uptake.

He understood now, though. God, did he understand.

John wasn't a stranger to sudden and unexpected change, change that shook him to his very core and made him question his life and what he would do with it, what would happen next.

The first time had been after Afghanistan.

Waking up in a body that no longer felt like his own, that was forever changed, had been jarring. Unable to remain an army surgeon, no longer suited to the intricacies of trauma surgery (at which he'd excelled), and suffering from fucked up mental problems that left him limping when there was no reason for it and screaming from his nightmares, John had spiraled into a depression. Aimless, he'd wandered and only righted himself when he'd met Sherlock.

Sherlock, the catalyst for the rest of the sweeping changes in John's life.

The second time had been after Sherlock's suicide.

John, however, shoved those thoughts and memories aside. Two years later, they were still too fresh and raw. Suffice it to say, John's world had been radically altered after Sherlock jumped and he himself had been transformed.

The third time was, of course, Sherlock's return.

Seeing his formerly dead best friend, the friend he'd mourned and missed, standing in front of him on the pavement, grinning that same "The game is on, John!" grin had shattered John's neatly remade life. He'd moved on, he'd rebuilt himself, righted his world and marched ahead…and Sherlock had upended that so easily.

And then this, the fourth and, John hoped, the final time, his world had changed again, the ground shifting beneath his feet and leaving him reeling, struggling to keep up.

It had been two hours since Sherlock's passionate yet desperate whispered confession in the vestibule of the church.

One hour and fifty minutes since John had kissed him for the first time in that same vestibule, feeling those smooth, beautiful lips gliding against his own in the sincerest display of love he'd ever been a part of.

And it had been one hour and thirty minutes since John had left his future wife at the altar and eloped with Sherlock Holmes.


	2. We Are Gathered Together Here

_Two Hours Previously_

John was nervous.

Not the excited, jittery, anticipating-good-things-can't-stand-still-can-we- hurry-this-along nervous.

He was the sick, palms sweaty, throat closing, butterflies-in-my-stomach-are-attacking-my-insides -with-knives nervous.

He paced the large, vaulted vestibule of the church, fiddling with his ridiculous top hat as he did, nerves jolting as he passed the closed double doors to the nave and heard the murmuring voices of his friends and family, Mary's friends and family, all gathered together to see them get married.

John swallowed thickly, feeling he was about to be sick.

He stopped pacing, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, filling his cheeks then whooshing it out, reaching for a modicum of calm. John wasn't a stranger to having an attack of nerves this strong. He'd felt this way before in Afghanistan numerous times, in the moments before he'd first seen battle, when he'd known he and his men were potentially walking into a trap, when he was faced with young men he could do nothing to save but was trying his hardest to anyway, even as he felt them dying beneath his hands.

This, though, was a different sort of nervous, a different sort of situation he now found himself in. This wasn't battle, this was marriage.

It shouldn't have been so hard.

"John."

Lots of grooms got nervous on their wedding day. That's why there were so many jokes made about them (and John felt he'd heard them all last week at his bachelor party). It was practically a given that John would get nervous too. It didn't mean he was doubting Mary or having second thoughts. He was happy with Mary and he wanted to marry her.

Then why was his heart trying to beat out of his chest and claw its way up his throat?

"_John_."

John's eyes snapped open and he looked across the vestibule to where Sherlock stood, already wearing his top hat and dove grey suit which denoted him as John's sole best man, lending the ensemble an air of elegant romanticism John could never achieve.

"Yeah?" His voice was a little high, a little breathy, but sounded steady enough. John saw Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Just…edgy. Can't wait for all this to be over. Feel like a bloody performing bear." John tried to manage a convincing and reassuring smile but thought it fell flat.

Sherlock must have thought so as well because he clenched his jaw and looked away from John, beginning his own tight circuit of pacing as they each waited for Mycroft to come and tell them the priest was ready for them at the front.

The minutes ticked past. Each time he passed the glazed window looking out onto the church's front lawn, John could see the distorted shapes of the guests arriving. Every look made something inside him twist tighter and tighter until he felt positively jittery.

On his next circuit around the room, John almost collided with Sherlock, who had stopped abruptly and refused to move out of John's path.

"What?"

Sherlock fidgeted, hands shoved in his pockets.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He closed his mouth, tightly clenched his jaw, then sidestepped John and continued pacing.

"Sherlock? _What_?"

Sherlock froze, his back turned to John, but John could see the tension in his lean frame. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way his head was held perfectly erect, chin high, knees locked.

"Sher-"

"Would you be doing this if I hadn't left?"

John's heart skipped a beat at the low-spoken question. He didn't even pretend to not know what Sherlock was talking about.

"I don't know."

And John didn't know. Not really. He'd always thought he wanted to get married, settle down, have a house and raise children but before Sherlock had left- been _forced_ to leave, yes, yes, he knew the whole story- none of his girlfriends had lasted beyond a couple dates. They were always scared away by Sherlock, or were made furious that John placed his friendship with Sherlock above any blossoming romance, no matter how promising. If he were honest with himself, none of those women had held the appeal that Sherlock did to him, none of them even came close, and so, in the end, it had always been a simple decision to make.

John had always chosen Sherlock.

When John met Mary, Sherlock had been "dead" for a year. John had gone through the painful process of mourning, of cycling through the seven stages of grief his therapist had talked about and encouraged him with. By the time he and Mary went on their first date, John was on stage seven- acceptance- and was ready to face his life without Sherlock because no matter what he'd said at Sherlock's grave, dead people didn't miraculously come back to life. He'd wanted what being with Mary offered- love, stability, family, a home, maybe children. It was everything he'd ever thought he wanted, and he'd snatched at it with both hands.

Then Sherlock came back.

Months later, John was still trying to reconcile his two separate lives into a cohesive whole. Sherlock tolerated Mary (barely) because he knew she was special to John and kept his most cutting remarks to himself. Mary tolerated Sherlock for the same reason, which left John in the awkward, unenviable position between them.

If John had met Mary while Sherlock was still around, would he have still chosen her? Would John have strove so hard to make time for Mary, thereby neglecting Sherlock? Would he have happily gone away with Mary, moved out of Baker Street, if Sherlock had still lived there? If Sherlock had never left, would John still be marrying Mary?

_That_ was what Sherlock was asking him and, as much as John would've loved to have a clear cut, simple answer…he didn't. He wasn't going to pretend that he did. It wasn't fair to either himself or Sherlock.

"_I_ know." Sherlock still hadn't turned around. "You wouldn't be doing this. You wouldn't have dated Mary for long. She wouldn't have been able to compete with your friendship for me- you would have driven her away or she would have left, fed up of having to vie with me for your attention. You wouldn't have fallen in love with her and be getting married. You'd still be with me, at Baker Street, and we'd be-"

Sherlock broke off, his voice catching, and John stared at his back in disbelief.

"Sherlock…we'll still be friends." John tried to pick over his words and say the right thing, heal the breach that had lain between Sherlock and himself ever since the consulting detective had returned, even after John had forgiven him. Sherlock had expected John to still be living at Baker Street, ready to start solving cases with him again, ready to go back to the way things were…but John had a job now, a fiancé, duties he couldn't neglect for Sherlock.

It had been hard to say which of them had been more upset.

"I won't forget you…There'll still be time-"

"I don't want to be _friends_." Sherlock sneered, finally turning, and John stared at the naked hate and pain that was plain on Sherlock's face, the wide, blazing eyes full of unshed tears. It wasn't like Sherlock to show emotion and John's heart wrenched to see it now, knowing he was the one causing it.

"Will you call every Sunday? Hm? Perhaps stop by while Mary is out with her friends? Get together for a _pint_ down at the _pub_?" John winced at the venom and derision in Sherlock's voice as the taller man stalked towards him, his hands clenched at his sides, inhaling shakily as he fought against his emotions. "I don't want to be relegated to weekend visits when Mary doesn't already have plans with you. I don't want to _compete_ with her for your time. I want you all to _myself_. I want you back at Baker Street, in your armchair or making tea or fixing dinner. I want to hear about your day even when it interrupts and annoys me. I want you by my side when I go out on cases and I want the surety that you've got my back no matter what situation we find ourselves in. I want you with _me_."

John, so mesmerized by what Sherlock was saying, hadn't realized Sherlock had been backing him up until his back hit the wall, jarring the paintings. Sherlock's arms came up and he braced himself to either side of John lowering his face to John's level, his voice grating out impossibly low.

"I want you with me," he repeated. "I want…" He stopped talking and dropped his eyes, biting his lips and obviously at a loss what to say, frantically searching in his mind for the words.

"What're you saying?" John murmured, and Sherlock's eyes snapped up to his again, determination blazing in their depths.

"I have always purposefully held myself distant from others. I never wanted the romantic, emotional entanglements that others sought because they were messy, caused undue suffering, and were distracting. Who knows better than I how marriages disintegrate, how passion can turn to murder, and how easily one's world can be shattered with one small deed? I have always prided myself on never succumbing to such things. But…I have never loved another person as much as I love you, John. And I want us to spend the rest of our days together."

John stared up at Sherlock, trying to understand. He didn't…where had this come from? He thought all this, the distance, the looks, the slight pain he sometimes saw on Sherlock's face, had all had to do with their friendship. He had thought Sherlock was jealous, nothing more, and John had been determined to prove to him they would still be friends.

This, though, wasn't possible.

"You're not serious."

"I am."

"Sherlock…you can't…you've never loved me-"

"I've _always_ needed you, John, and I do love you."

"Why haven't you said any of this before? Why did you wait until _now_ when I'm less than an hour away from marrying-"

"I wanted you to be happy, and thought you would be with her but-"Sherlock shook his head, once again losing his words and John could only stare up at him in bewilderment. "Please don't marry her."

Sherlock took a deep breath and when he next spoke, it was the barest of sounds.

"Choose me." Sherlock's eyes bored into John's, as if he could make John choose him by sheer force of will. His pupils were heavily dilated, though not in lust, more fear, the fear of rejection, of laying emotions he usually pretended he didn't have at John's feet and half-expecting John to crush them. "I love you. I can give you anything she could and more….please."

In retrospect, John would be ashamed of himself. This was a monumental decision that not only affected him but two other people, both of whom he loved, both for entirely different reasons, but in that moment, John only thought of himself and Sherlock. He never even once thought of Mary, of how she would feel, the pain he was about to put her through, which was telling in and of itself.

Instead, John pressed his hand to the back of Sherlock's head and guided him down until their lips met.

In his life, John had done his fair share of kissing.

Then he kissed Sherlock.

John's heart didn't leap from his chest or perform any other types of acrobatics.

His lungs didn't freeze, his knees didn't shake, and his entire body didn't break out in sudden and excruciating arousal.

Instead, his stomach did odd, funny little flips and flops that made his breath catch and he felt the keenest sense of relief sweep over him. John _melted_ back against the wall and Sherlock followed, keeping their lips sealed together, maintaining their connection.

When John finally pulled away, he kept his eyes closed, breathing in the smells he'd come to associate with Sherlock- soap, cigarette smoke, the faint tang of gunpowder, something distinctly chemical- and felt Sherlock rest his forehead against his own. He could feel Sherlock shaking, restraining himself, wanting to ask John what he'd chosen but still fearful, even after their kiss, of the answer.

John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock.

Their eyes met and held.

Then John slipped his hand into Sherlock's and, without another word, Sherlock pulled him from the room.

* * *

Mycroft opened the nave door, prepared to inform his brother and friend they were ready for them to take their places at the front- and froze.

He opened his mouth before realizing he honestly, for the first time in his life, had no idea what to say. When he further realized his brother and John hadn't noticed his arrival, too intent on snogging each other, he silently crept backwards and gently closed the door until he could look through the smallest sliver without being observed by the couple inside.

He watched as the two broke apart and gazed at each other, before his brother took John's hand, and pulled the shorter man across the room towards an outside door, obviously intent on making their escape.

Neither paused to even look back.

* * *

**I've gotten quite a few questions about this fic so let's take the time to address them: yes, this will be a multi-chapter Johnlock story. It's my new WIP and the only thing I can promise is slow updates but to never abandon it. My muse has overtaken me with this fic, I'm afraid. **

**I hope everyone enjoys reading it as much as I'm truly enjoying writing it. :) Oh, and all these emotions? Don't worry, they'll be addressed.  
**


	3. In The Sight of God

When it was apparent John and Sherlock had left the church, Mycroft allowed the nave door to fall together and stared blankly at it, absently tracing patterns in the wood grain as his mind whirred ahead to what now needed to be done.

It was obvious John had no inclination to come back and fulfill his promise to wed Ms. Morstan, nor would Sherlock allow him to do so. The nature of their clandestine kiss had spoken volumes as to their mutual regard for each other, of which Ms. Morstan was not a factor.

Mycroft sighed heavily. As with all of Sherlock's messes, it inescapably fell to him, the responsible elder brother, to fix things.

First and foremost on the new agenda would be to inform Ms. Morstan of her groom's sudden and inexplicable walking out.

The rest was simple organization- make an announcement to the guests, disperse the fragrant horde of white orchids, make sure the food didn't go to waste, arrange-

The sharp clicking of heels against the flagstones signaled the approach of his assistant and Mycroft glanced at Anthea as she halted in front of him, dressed in a rich burgundy colored dress, hair nicely styled, and eyes glued to her mobile.

"Sir, the priest is ready to begin."

"Go dismiss him. Discreetly. We won't be needing his services today."

"Sir?"

"John Watson has absconded with my brother."

Anthea's startled eyes flew from her mobile to Mycroft's face. "_Sir_?"

"I must inform Ms. Morstan of John's departure and determine how she wishes to proceed." Mycroft continued, ignoring his assistant's momentary lapse in her usually cool and unruffled demeanor. Taking her cue from Mycroft, Anthea nodded dutifully and began making notes on her mobile as Mycroft spoke.

"Make arrangements for the guests to be served dinner in the pavilion. Hide the cake and anything else bride and groom related. Also, have some _good_ wine sent over for the guests. There's no sense letting all the food go to waste-

"Sorry, sir, but Mr. Watson specifically requested no wine be served at the reception because of his sister."

Mycroft felt his irritation with the situation increase. The entire debacle would go over better if everyone were plied with wine, and personally Mycroft felt John had lost any say-so in the current proceedings but he decided not to be the one responsible for assisting Harriet Watson off the wagon, even though she was already planning to disembark.

"Of course. I defer to your judgment, Anthea. Make the rest of the arrangements while I go speak to Ms. Morstan."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Mycroft's brisk knock was answered with a cheery "Come in!" and he opened the door to the small, sunlit room where Mary had gotten ready to reveal Ms. Morstan, swathed in a delicate white gown, her smiling face glowing in happiness, clutching a spray of red flowers with trembling hands. At the sight of Mycroft, she sucked in a shaky breath and threw her one and only bridesmaid, a dark haired woman named Beatrice, a nervous but brilliant smile.

"Are they ready for us?" She asked, voice vibrating with happy, excited nerves and Mycroft, surprisingly, found that he felt badly for her.

He had only met Ms. Morstan on a few occasions- she had memorably tried to bash him in the head with her bag when she thought John was being kidnapped- but she had left very little of an impression on the British Government. She _was_ pretty but nothing stunning, nothing out of the common way with her blonde, curly hair and wide blue eyes, short stature, and cheerful personality. She was moderately intelligent and clever, Mycroft was forced to concede, and showed flashes of bravery when the occasion warranted it, but had failed to impress him beyond a vague description of being "nice" and aesthetically suiting John well when they stood together. Mycroft had secretly thought the pair of them looked like a matched set of Dutch dolls.

Sherlock, judging by the disgusted, angry glower he'd worn at the time, had thought so as well.

"You look beautiful, darling," Mr. Morstan said throatily, tenderly kissing Mary's cheek and bringing tears to both their eyes. "You're such a lovely bride. You'll both be so happy."

They hugged each other, Mary laughing unsteadily and trying to fend off her tears so as not to ruin her makeup.

"Let's do this." She said, finally pulling away enough to thread her arm through her father's and grinning at Beatrice.

Mycroft's insides twisted unpleasantly as he stepped forward to break up this touching display of affection and crush Ms. Morstan's dreams.

He felt a sudden and swift hatred towards John for doing this.

"Ms. Morstan, I'm afraid I have something to discuss with you. In private."

Mary frowned and a bit of the happy glow faded. "What is it?"

"Perhaps we could discuss this in private."

She shook her head. "You can say whatever you want in front of dad and Beatrice." Despite her staunch demeanor, Mary's voice wobbled slightly and she gripped her father's arm tighter.

Mycroft debated arguing with her but knew it would be a futile endeavor. And it would be best for Ms. Morstan to have those closest to her nearby when he broke the news.

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable if you sat down." Mycroft calmly suggested and the room went deathly quiet.

No news that started out with an offer to sit down could possibly be good.

Mary's smile jerked, faltering, and Mycroft saw her hand tighten on her father's arm again.

"What's wrong?"

There was nothing for it. Mycroft forced himself to meet her eye, which was surprisingly hard, and reached for his icy detachment.

"John left. Half an hour ago with my brother, Sherlock."

"He…he _left_?" Mary echoed, her voice hollow and shocked. "He left _the church_?"

At Mycroft's perfunctory nod, she slumped, the glow fading entirely, and letting go her father's arm. She and her bridesmaid shared A Look.

"I knew he'd do something like this." Beatrice muttered disgustedly, shaking her head, but Mary flapped a hand to silence her, obviously dismissing a long-standing argument, and turned back to Mycroft.

"What do you mean John _left_?"

"He better not have left! He's marrying my daughter in less than ten minutes!" Mr. Morstan said, anger raising his voice _and_ his blood pressure if his suddenly flushed face was any indication. Mycroft sincerely hoped the man did not suffer a heart attack. It was the macabre finishing touch the whole disaster warranted.

"He wouldn't." Mary alleged firmly, as if trying to convince herself and Mycroft of the fact. "John _wouldn't_. He _promised_ me he wouldn't go on any cases- especially not _today_!"

Mary swallowed and Mycroft saw her try and steady herself, reach for an excuse, knowing it was hopeless but the human psyche would always react in such a way to appalling news.

"Did he…did he say when he would be coming back?"

Mycroft squared his shoulders. "I do not think he means to come back."

"What do you mean by that?" Beatrice asked indignantly, beating Mr. Morstan who had opened his mouth, face flushing even darker.

"It is my belief John doesn't mean to return-"

"What else?" Mary abruptly gritted out, fists clenched. Mycroft could see the tension in her frame, the tears swimming in her eyes that she refused to let fall, her desperate attempt to keep herself together, and admired her for it. A lesser woman would have already fallen apart at the news her husband-to-be had left her.

"Ms. Morstan-"

"What are you not telling me?"

Once again, Mycroft had to grudgingly admire Ms. Morstan for her cleverness.

"You can tell me. I can take it."

Pushing aside the desire to ask Ms. Morstan to sit again, knowing it would go unheeded, Mycroft drew a deep breath.

"John and Sherlock…" Mycroft groped for a correct and appropriate wording. "Left together."

Confusion suffused Mary's face.

"You've already said that, Mr. Holmes. I meant…._no. _That's not possible. John's not…not..." She shook her head, pressing her fingertips to her temples and closing her eyes. "I'm misunderstanding you. Mr. Holmes. When you say they _left together_ you surely don't mean-"

"I witnessed the two of them kissing in the vestibule and then leaving, hand in hand, by a side entrance."

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please."

The assembled family and friends were already under the suspicion something had gone wrong.

Weddings always had a few hiccups and started late but it was now well over an hour since the scheduled start time, John and Sherlock were nowhere to be seen, and Mary's door had been locked for the past fifteen minutes.

When Mycroft Holmes strode to the front of the church and asked for attention, all mutters and whispers died off and everyone turned expectantly to find out what had happened.

"It is with deep regret that I announce there will not be a wedding today-"

There were immediate shocked gasps and titters, someone actually cried out "No!" and everyone started talking at once, speaking to each other heatedly.

"What the hell?"

"-always knew that boy was no good-"

"-went wrong? They were perfect-"

"-Sherlock Holmes-"

"-don't understand-"

"This is _just the thing_ I was telling Mary he would do-"

"-flighty, she's always been so flighty. Never could make up her mind-"

"I knew this would happen. She just wanted a family-"

"-well at her age, dear. Tick tock, tick tock-"

"If she'd listened to me in the first place-"

"What else would you expect, really-"

Surveying the babbling crowd, Mycroft met Gregory Lestrade's eyes and realized, as he saw the resignation and utter lack of surprise on his weathered face, the DI had known something like this might happen. He made a note to speak to him later.

Frowning, Mycroft saw one of John's army friends, a handsome young man with brown hair, smirk and nudge the sandy-haired man seated next to him. They shared a significant look and the brown haired man mouthed "Told you mate."

Mycroft resolved that if he saw money exchange hands he would rescind his order to not allow wine at the reception.

"What happened?" Someone shouted and almost everyone stopped talking to hear how Mycroft would respond.

"That is between John and Mary." He replied smoothly, not about to be pressured into revealing what had taken place. Mary or John could handle that, if and when they chose to do so. It was a delicate business, John running away with Sherlock, not only because of the heartbreak and embarrassment for Mary, but because it meant John coming out to his friends and family as some type of homosexual. It was not Mycroft's place to expose such a thing.

"He left."

All heads swiveled as one to the doorway at the sound of the quiet but firm voice. All talking died away.

There Mary stood, still in her wedding dress, with her mother beside her, one arm wrapped protectively round her shoulders. Beatrice trailed after Mary, her bouquet still clutched in her hands but hanging limp at her side. There had undoubtedly never been a more shocked looking group of women.

Mycroft felt the entire scene would have made Shakespeare proud.

He and Greg shared another grim look before Mary spoke again.

"He left with Sherlock." She said, her voice high pitched and wobbling slightly in the fresh onslaught of tears. Her eyes were already fiercely red, her cheeks flushed in an otherwise pale, shocked face.

There was a ringing silence as everyone wondered if there was more.

A few people on John's side of the church already knew there would be.

"They were _together_." Mary's voice broke tellingly over the last word and she buried her face in her hands as fresh tears streamed down.

The entire church erupted.

"_Oh my god_!" Harry Watson shouted, immediately clapping a hand to her mouth to suppress the hysterical giggles that threatened to come out over learning her baby brother was gay.

Some people stood up and started shouting. A few women burst into tears. Heads were shaking, tongues were wagging, and fingers jabbing through the air as the worst aspects of John's character were angrily expounded on.

Mary was freely crying now, her sobs loud and wrenching, painful to witness. Her mother and Beatrice were patting her back, doing their best to console her, and a small group of her family were gathering around, tutting and sharing dark looks with each other, shaking their heads.

Through all the chaos, shouting, and tears, Mycroft saw the sandy-haired man slip his smugly grinning friend a twenty pound note.

He sighed and signaled to Anthea to order the wine.


	4. And In the Presence of This Company

When the train pulled into the station, just another in a long line of stops it had made since leaving Northampton, John didn't bother checking to see if they'd reached Euston yet.

He and Sherlock had taken a number of trips over the years, working cases, running down leads, and John was always able to tell when they were close to Baker Street. He wryly thought he had some sort of homing device implanted in his head that told him when he was close to the flat. It was a childish thought, ridiculous.

John knew if he told Sherlock, the genius would scoff and tell him exactly why he felt that way- something to do with barometric pressure, the position of the sun, or his brain subconsciously picking up the clues…which was why John had never told him. He didn't want his overly-romantic notion explained away by rational means. It would have cheapened the way he felt somehow, that the disorganized, sometimes hazardous flat had always felt like Home, much more so than the modest flat he'd taken after Sherlock's "death," more than the flat he and Mary had later got.

So he kept it to himself and instead of leaping from his seat and joining the queue of people disembarking, John rested his head against the seat and fiddled with his powered down mobile, turning the smooth plastic over and over in his hands, wondering how many people had tried dialing him in the past hour and what their voicemails said.

He really didn't want to know.

Sherlock, however, jerked from his sleepy slouch opposite, and leaned forward, narrowed eyes peering out the window. He seemed to come to a quick decision and stood.

"This is our stop."

"What- no, we're not there yet, Sherlock." The man had looked exhausted when they'd climbed aboard and it seemed waking after a single hour of sleep had left him disoriented. "We've still another thirty minutes."

"I know that, John. But we should get off here."

"Why?"

Sherlock didn't respond and was already up and moving away, leaving John no choice but to follow him, perplexed.

It was dark when they stumbled out onto the platform and made their way through the mass of people to the main road. It was Saturday night, busy, and rather cool, a hint of lingering rain in the air. John felt a twinge when he remembered Mary laughing about the rain yesterday, saying, with an excited grin, that it was good luck if it rained on their wedding day.

"Good luck when the pavilion floods?" John had joked, ready to dismiss it as silly, but Mary had pulled him close, twining her arms around his waist and kissing him sweetly.

"No. It's a sign of renewal, of starting over, cleaning away all the bad of the past and moving forward to our future." Her eyes had looked up at him, full of love and slight apprehension. "Together. Just…us."

They had both known what she was talking about.

"Why're we stopping here?" John asked, shaking away the memory and glancing up and down the slick street as cars splashed by them, headlamps cutting bright swatches on the glistening pavement.

Sherlock didn't look at him as he answered. "If we return to the flat straightaway we may have to deal with unwanted guests." He shrugged. "I thought a hotel."

"A hotel?"

"Problem?"

No. John could see the logic in not returning to the flat, but he thought they were safe from others for tonight. He didn't think they needed to worry about anyone finding them until tomorrow. Still, a hotel…it smacked of vulgar implications, which was stupid because, well, because.

"No, no problem. Lead on."

* * *

It was habit to order a double room when they stayed at a hotel.

Subsequently, it was entirely expected to see the knowing gleam in the front desk clerk's eyes as she took in the sight of two men getting a hotel room together.

Only this time, John realized as Sherlock wordlessly handed over his card to the slyly grinning clerk, this was _exactly_ what it looked like.

"You gents been to a wedding?" The woman asked brightly, swiping the proffered card. John watched the piece of plastic _shck _down the swipe pad, mesmerized by the movement, and felt his mouth go dry.

Sherlock ignored her while John tried not to flush and look guilty.

"Sort of." He replied quietly and she beamed at him, returning Sherlock his card and tearing off the print receipt for him to sign.

"Thought so, seeing the matching suits and all. We've got a lot of those lately. This is the most popular season for weddings and we're usually booked solid. You're lucky we had room available."

John managed a small smile, accepted the room key, and murmured his thanks before turning away.

"I'll call the porter to get your bags."

"That won't be necessary," John said quickly, just wanting to escape and go upstairs. "We don't have any."

Up went the eyebrows as assumptions were made and John flushed so hard and so quickly he thought he would get a nosebleed.

"They're being delivered later." Sherlock said smoothly, coming to the rescue when he saw the tips of John's ears go red. "Thank you."

* * *

It was awkward.

As soon as the door closed on their room, it was horrifically awkward.

The silence was so thick and tense it was oppressive, permeating the air, making moving and breathing feel like surprisingly exaggerated efforts.

This was how it always was between them now- ever since Sherlock had returned. John was disheartened it hadn't changed, but hadn't really expected it to so quickly. There was still lingering pain and betrayal on his side, questions unanswered, curiosity about where Sherlock had been, everything he had done in the years he had been gone. John could only guess the reasons Sherlock himself kept silent.

They were only easy with each other on cases, when they were both too diverted to remember to be uncomfortable around each other. There was no case now, no buffer. There weren't even any bags to fumble with and concentrate on unpacking and John wished he'd thought to nick his luggage out of the boot of the hired car at the church. If only to have something to do with his hands.

Well, there was no hope for it now, he thought, staring at the slim line of Sherlock's back as the other man walked over to their window and looked down at the busy street below. John had made his decision…but he still didn't know everything that would entail.

"Um…I'm just going to…"John motioned to the adjoining loo and Sherlock turned, eyes flicking from it to John and he wordlessly turned back to the window again.

Ok, then.

Once in the loo, John almost locked the door behind him but stopped at the last second, chuckling incredulously. He wasn't one of those bad romance heroines, a trembling, fearful virgin about to go out and be ravished on her wedding night.

He was John Watson, here with Sherlock Holmes, on the night of his own ruined wedding and….and….

_Fuck_.

In the privacy of the loo, John began having terrifying second thoughts.

What happened now?

What had he and Sherlock even decided on?

What was he supposed to say?

Or do?

Or even _feel_, because at this point, John didn't feel anything except numb. He felt like he was floating, moving through everything in a fog. It was all surreal and he almost expected to wake up back in his bed beside Mary, the entire day having been nothing but a dream brought on by wedding jitters.

Then John remembered the kiss from earlier, the hard press of Sherlock's body against him, the delicate fluttering of his pulse, the stuttering breaths across his face.

Not a dream. This was real. This was what he wanted.

That knowledge did not stop the questions from tumbling around his brain.

Where would this end up tonight? If it had been anyone else, _anyone else_, John would have known where the night was leading. A hotel on the edge of London- it was easy to guess. John's brain, though, stalled at the idea of taking Sherlock- Sherlock Holmes- to bed.

Fuck.

* * *

When John emerged from the loo, the ends of his hair still dripping from where he'd splashed a bracing amount of cold water on his face, he stopped in the doorway, brought up short by the sight that met him.

Sherlock had already partially undressed. His suit tossed carelessly (and contemptuously) to the floor, he wore only his white button down and pants. John had seen Sherlock with a lot less clothing and had been a lot less affected by it then than he was now. Now, Sherlock may as well have been entirely naked from the way John's body reacted to him and when Sherlock glanced at him, John knew his desire was obvious.

It was four slow, cautious steps across the carpet before Sherlock was close enough to bend his head and press his lips to John's.

"Stop thinking, John, it's annoying." Sherlock pulled away far enough to whisper his command against John's mouth before dipping back down and sealing their lips together, hand coming up to tilt John's head to the side, and like lighting a match, the fire _blazed_.

It suddenly became entirely clear to John how this night could end:

Pressed against the wall, friction and heat and sloppy kisses.

On the floor, rutting frantically against each other, carpet burns, pained gasp, pleasured sighs.

One of the beds, cool sheets, hot skin, squeaking springs, headboard thumping against the wall.

It was all there, the promise of what could happen in the scorching kisses they shared.

"Umm…I don't..." John pulled away and frowned, watching as Sherlock's eyes slowly focused, at first trained on John's lips but then sluggishly traveling upward. By the time their eyes met, Sherlock's were sharp again and he frowned in return.

"Are you all right?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Fine. I just…tonight I'm not…" It felt ridiculous to say he wasn't ready. It didn't change the fact that he wasn't.

Those familiar, piercing green eyes, intelligence shining from their depths, flicked over John's face.

"Not tonight." Sherlock finally agreed, unable to stop himself from desperately stealing another kiss before stepping away completely.


	5. To Join Together

**Thank for all the support and encouragement for this story. There are multiple conversations and points of view in this chapter, so please be aware that a line break denotes a switch.**

* * *

The wedding pavilion was gorgeously decorated in pinks and whites, sparkling faux crystals and bunches of puffy pink flowers. Everything was awash in soft candlelight, the flames fluttering in the light, refreshing night breeze that teased its way through the entrance of the tent, bringing with it the sultry scent of a warm summer's night. The chattering, laughing guests, those that remained, sat at round, cloth covered tables, eating their way through the delicious dinner and freely partaking of the excellent wine. A casual observer would assume a delightful wedding had taken place earlier, and now everyone was reaping the good cheer to be had from two people pledging to love one another the rest of their lives.

A casual observer would perhaps have missed that the wedding cake was absent.

They would not have failed to observe that the groom was absent.

As was the bride.

Greg Lestrade sat at his own table, a solitary island in what he was learning was increasingly hostile Morstan territory, casually sipping his wine and listening to Mary's close friends run her to ground. It was interesting how incredibly bitchy women could be around each other, he thought, but he had to admit he wasn't surprised. Years at Scotland Yard had taught him that women would turn on each other at the slightest provocation.

He _had_ expected more sympathy for Mary from her own friends, though.

"I mean, what was she thinking, bursting in like that and telling everyone he'd run off with his best mate? Still in her wedding dress?" The speaker, short with dark glasses, rolled her eyes. "_Dra-ma_."

"Please. Are you _really_ surprised?" The short haired blonde one, Greg noted, was particularly vicious. "She _always_ had to be the center of attention."

"Well, if it'd been _me_, I wouldn'tve told _a soul_. I mean, he ran off with his best _male_ friend. I didn't even know John…you know_, leaned that way_." The curly-haired brunette was rather decent, though, Greg decided. She seemed to at least feel passingly sorry for Mary, unlike the other ones. Hell, John was his best friend and even _Greg_ felt sorry for Mary.

"There had to be _something_. She _had_ to have known before this. You don't just _turn gay_." Glasses stated, shaking her head, incredulous. "That's not how it works."

"Well, she _was_ always talking about how much time John spent with Sherlock-"

"They were best mates, though." Curly Brunette argued. "Of course they would spend time together-"

"They used to _live together_." Glasses pointed out and a dramatic, accusatory hush fell over the small group of gossiping women. Vicious Blonde smirked, well, viciously.

"I knew it couldn't be true."

"What?"

"I really shouldn't say."

The next half minute was filled with desperate pleas to be told. As if there was ever any doubt the information would be imparted, Greg thought, draining his glass but not leaving to get another. He really wanted to hear this.

"Well…and of course this stays just between us…_but_…Mary told me John was _amazing_ in bed. Like, incredible. Always ready to go, really generous and loving and all that. Then Sherlock comes back and…"

Greg fidgeted, suddenly realizing that no, he really didn't want to know this.

"_What_?"

The women were hanging on Vicious Blonde's every word. The noise of the fifty other odd guests in the pavilion fading to the background in the face of such delicious gossip.

"Sherlock comes back and….all of a sudden John loses interest. Doesn't want sex anymore, makes up excuses, always busy or tired…or going out with Sherlock."

"No!"

"_Yes_. Mary told me she was getting really fed up because she was always having to initiate and felt John was just going along with her to make her happy."

"Maybe it was just pre-wedding stress." Curly Brunette said, frowning. "I know when Jeremy and I were getting married we didn't shag for weeks before-"

"Yes, but did Jeremy run off with his best man the day of? The same best man everyone already thought he was shagging?"

Another hush fell over the group as they all looked at each other.

"It wasn't just the sex, though, even if that was a large part of it. Mary said John was out with Sherlock all the time. Said the bloke would call at all hours of the night and day and John would just…go with him. Like it was nothing. Just abandon her and he'd be gone all night, call in to work even. Sherlock once showed up on one of their dates-"

"John was really angry about that, though. I remember."

"Not angry enough to stay with Mary." Vicious Blonde argued. "He left her, right in the middle of the restaurant, off to run after some supposed kidnapper with Sherlock Bloody Holmes. He tried to explain it away, saying it was important. Funny enough, I never saw the story in the papers-"

"John said it was kept hushed up, something private-"

"Yeah, because it _never happened_." Vicious Blonde smirked disparagingly at Curly Brunette and Greg bristled at what she was insinuating. "Don't be so naive, Kate. He was just making an excuse to go shag Sherlock behind Mary's back. It all makes sense now."

Glasses sighed. "Poor Mary."

"Where is she?"

"Last I heard she was back at the hotel room with Beatrice."

Vicious Blonde snorted. "Fucking Bea. Did I tell you what she said to me last weekend? About my new flat?"

* * *

"Mary."

Beatrice paused in her packing to stare at her best friend, curled up in an overly squashy chair beside the open window, the curtains billowing slightly in the breeze. She had barely moved from her seat since they'd got back to their hotel after the church. Beatrice had managed to coax her out of her wedding dress and into pajamas but Mary refused to eat, even though she'd skipped breakfast, and had gone back to staring blankly out the window as the sun slowly set and full darkness set in.

Beatrice, despite knowing that Mary probably needed some space, was worried.

"Mary."

Still no response and Beatrice sighed, finishing up the packing and zipping her suitcase, checking to make sure nothing had been left behind. She fished out a cork from beneath the bed and tossed it in the bin, wondering how everything had gone to hell in the space of twenty four hours.

They'd spent last night ordering room service, drinking champagne and eating strawberries, laughing over old times and watching crap telly. A stereotypical girls' night before the wedding, Beatrice thought, smiling slightly before reality bled the happiness from the memory.

She'd be lying if she said was surprised at what John had done.

When Beatrice had first met John, she'd been less than impressed. He wasn't exactly the most commanding person, nondescript, short, with a slight limp, an ordinary doctor at some surgery. Mary had glowed around him, though, and eventually, the more she got to know him, Beatrice had seen the appeal of John Watson. Not that she had to approve Mary's boyfriends like they were twelve or anything, but the two of them together were…good.

John had loved Mary.

Ever since Sherlock "returned" though…

"_Mary_."

Mary jerked, coming out of her depressing musings and turned. "What?" Her voice was scratchy from crying, hollow, and Beatrice worked to keep the unwanted pity from showing on her face.

Beatrice hated to ask, really she did, but it had to be done. "What do you want to do now? We can book the room for another night or…"

Mary shrugged, rubbing at her itchy, raw eyes, trying to think past the loop her mind was chanting of _He left me He left me He left me He left with Sherlock He left with Sherlock, with Sherlock._

"I…don't know." She admitted, trying to run her hand through her hair but wincing when her fingers tangled in hairpins and spray. "Oh, fuck." She whimpered, trying to extract her fingers without causing more pain, and just like that was already close to tears again. _Again_. "Fuck."

"Here, let me." Beatrice gently started plucking the pins from Mary's hair, tossing them to the side and combing through the curls they'd styled just that morning, when they were both still full of hope.

"I don't know what I'm going to do." Mary began, voice wobbling. "Mum and dad said I could stay with them but I…I just can't."

"I know what you mean." Beatrice murmured. The idea of staying with one's parents on what should have been one's honeymoon was…disappointing to say the least. Painful on an entirely new level.

Mary snorted, her mocking laugh brittle. "No, you really, really don't. _God_." She rubbed at her eyes again as if that would force the tears to stop, sniffing loudly. "I don't know where I'm going to go. I can't stay with them but I can't go back to o-our flat. After today…God, I can't even go _home_."

"Hey, you can stay with me until we get everything sorted."

"What's there to sort out, Bea? John _left _me. He…he ran off with Sherlock and just…forgot about me. Everything….all the plans and the future we talked about…What am I supposed to do now?"

Beatrice smiled and nudged her friend, desperate to dispel the hopelessness in her eyes and see her smile. "Well, you still have two tickets to Majorca. We could always go and party on John's expense."

Mary, surprised, laughed wetly but the laugh ultimately morphed into sobs and Beatrice, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut, pulled Mary to her chest.

"I am so sorry, Mary."

"It's not _you_." She said, her voice thick and clogged with tears. "It's _John_. How could he do this?"

* * *

"You knew."

Greg jumped at the low, posh voice in his ear, whirling around.

Mycroft smirked superciliously and offered Greg a glass, which he gratefully took, downing half of it in one go. It seemed he was one of the few people here who were still sober and it was starting to be embarrassing.

"What?"

"You knew."

Ah, Mycroft, a man of few words. Greg had, in fact, had entire conversations with Mycroft involving just a few eloquent looks. Those had been some of their better conversations, actually, come to think of it.

He shrugged. "I had my suspicions, yeah. You don't work with Sherlock for years without picking up on a few things and his behavior since he's been back..." Greg groped for the right word. "If I had to call it anything I'd say 'pining' but it's _Sherlock_."

Mycroft pursed his lips and looked away, surveying the dimly lit pavilion. More than half the guests had opted to leave after the incident at the church, feeling it wouldn't be appropriate to continue on with a celebration when there wasn't anything to celebrate. Mycroft couldn't blame them. It _was_ in rather poor taste, all things considered, but it would have been a shame to let all the food and expense go to waste. Quite a few guests had stayed, unable to turn down the chance to gossip and be wined and dined at someone else's expense, and were therefore comprising the most awkward reception Mycroft had ever attended.

"_You_ didn't know."

Mycroft turned to look at Greg, raising an eyebrow at the jaunty, self-satisfied little grin that met him.

"Excuse me?"

"What happened. With Sherlock and John. You didn't know it was going to happen."

Greg was right. Mycroft hadn't known and it was needling him incessantly.

How had he missed something so important concerning his brother? Granted, Mycroft had been extremely busy the last few weeks. After helping Sherlock return from the dead, there had still been many loose ends to tie off concerning the shambles left of Moriarty's empire, the guests at John's wedding to screen, a situation in an African country that had required his smooth but threatening tongue. Various little important details that couldn't be left to just anyone.

None of that was an adequate excuse, Mycroft chastised himself. He still should have been aware of something so significant relating to his little brother and his emotional well-being.

He wondered if he were losing his touch, slipping up and starting to make mistakes, his mental acuity no longer as it had once been. The idea sent a dread chill through his chest.

"I was not aware their relationship had undergone such a dramatic and quick change." He replied smoothly, masking over the self-doubt he was suddenly experiencing.

Greg shrugged again. "I always knew they had this thing."

Seeing the dubious expression on Mycroft's face he elaborated.

"They may not've _acted_ on it. They may not've ever been together like that but…it was _there_. There was always something between them. You could see it when they looked at each other, when they looked at each other and thought the other didn't see."

Mycroft could agree with that. He'd often observed his brother staring at John in such a way, as if his entire world were contained within the grandfatherly jumpers and sassy remarks of John Watson.

"I always thought it was more one-sided, though." Greg admitted. "All on John's side, of course. Sherlock just didn't seem the type to reciprocate those sorts of things."

"I'm afraid our childhood was rather traumatic for Sherlock. He's always had difficulty expressing his emotions."

"Yeah, well. Guess not now."

The two men lapsed into silence but it was genial and far from tense or awkward. There was too much shared history between them to ever really be at odds with each other. Even if they were no longer trying to date, there was still respect and a deep, mutual love.

Greg snuck a glance over at the posh sod beside him and smirked before looking away. They'd tried dating in the past, twice, and both times had ended with them gently drifting apart. They'd got along great, better than Greg would have expected, and the sex had been, well, fantastic. But both their jobs were demanding, and they were equally stubborn and driven, neither willing to sacrifice or bend.

Now wasn't their time.

But Greg knew his future contained Mycroft and it had taken him almost a year before he had accepted that: the inevitability and the patience necessary to wait for a good thing.

Maybe not now, not tomorrow, but one day.

That was good enough.

* * *

"Told you mate."

"Fuck off, Harrison." The sandy-haired man, Sidwell, glowered at his friend as he sipped his wine, wishing Holmes's posh brother had provided something stronger at this god awful reception. It was just as well he hadn't, though, he thought as he watched Watson's sister giggle hysterically at something a pretty, leggy blonde had said. The way the blonde glanced around uneasily, looking for an escape, made it obvious she hadn't said anything even remotely funny.

"You'd have known better than to bet against me if you'd read his blog. It was like reading love letters or something, the way he was always going on about how great Sherlock was and how they did this and did that."

"I don't know how you got he was gay from reading his blog. He never _said_ it. Besides, the whole time we've known him, how many women has he shagged?"

"Enough to call him Three Continents Watson. Never knew Watson for a bender."

"Then why'd you bet he'd call off the wedding because of Sherlock?"

Harrison shrugged. "He's in love with him. Just because I don't understand the appeal, doesn't mean Watson doesn't."

They lapsed into silence, watching Harry Watson brush a stray hair away from the leggy blonde's face in an unquestionably flirty gesture. The blonde looked uncomfortable, staring into her wine glass and shooting desperate, covert looks around the room but no one came to save her.

"Well," Harrison sighed, "I don't envy him. That Sherlock bloke sounds so bloody high maintenance."

Sidwell shook his head. "Can't believe he went off with some crazy wanker when he had _Mary_. Sounds more like a mid-life crisis thing to me. Probably be split up with Holmes in less than a month." He added sourly.

Harrison grinned at him.

"Oh, come on. Don't be mad because you lost." He glanced around and lowered his voice. "Come on. I'll bet you fifty quid the remaining Holmes brother kisses that grey haired guy before the night's out."

Sidwell nonchalantly looked around, eyes measuring the arrogant and posh looking Holmes brother- he couldn't remember his name but he looked like he had been born with a golden stick up his arse- and then turned to stare at the older man Harrison was talking about. He'd noticed him earlier in the church, sitting a few pews up from him on John's side. He was handsome enough but a lot older and seemed to always be frowning. The older man had just walked over to where Harry Watson was now practically rubbing against the younger woman. The grey haired man draped an arm over her shoulders in a definite possessive gesture and she sagged against him in relief.

Sidwell snorted, this was an easy one.

"You're on."

Harrison hid his smug smirk behind his wine glass, looking forward to an easy fifty quid. It wasn't _his_ fault if Sidwell had never read Watson's blog…but he'd take him to the cleaners for it.

* * *

"- and they'll have _lots_ of little babies and we can convert the upstairs bedroom into a nursery for little Hamish and Sherrinford."

"Sherrinford?" Molly asked quizzically, shooting an anxious glance over her shoulder in case Harry Watson should return. Molly was sure John's sister was a lovely person when not intoxicated, and even when she _was_ intoxicated she was nice, if a bit too flirty and handsy. Molly just felt lucky Greg had intervened when he did. If she came back, Molly could always plead helping the distinctly merry Mrs. Hudson in lieu of talking to Harry. She really didn't want to hurt her feelings if it could be avoided.

"Yes. Well, you know those Holmes men- always having the most dreadful names- but if they're going to name one Hamish for John then Sherlock should have one named after him. Just imagine the happy Christmases." Mrs. Hudson sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. "Sherlock would have to wear the antlers then. And of course, I can babysit while they go out- but they'll have to only take the tame cases. Can't be going off getting into danger and trouble like they used to."

"I think you've had enough to drink, Mrs. Hudson." Molly said gently, deciding not to break her heart by pointing out that two men couldn't have a baby together and taking away what felt like the umpteenth glass of wine from the elderly lady, setting it to the side.

"That…may be a very good point, dear. I do feel distinctly tippy." Mrs. Hudson sniffed again and smiled at Molly. "I'm just so happy for them."

"Me too." Molly hesitated, once again making sure no one was within hearing. "Do you think they're all right?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed and patted Molly's arm. "They're always all right if they're together. Of course. I've known from the start, you know. Sherlock's always loved John. You should have seen him that first day he brought John to the flat. The boy was bumbling all over himself to please John and get him to stay, and when he did- well, they were always at each other."

Molly' eyes widened and she glanced around to make sure no one had heard this startlingly pronouncement. Tensions were already uneasy with the Morstan's. It wouldn't do to push it. "I thought they weren't…together….before."

"Mmm. Molly, dear. Of course they were. They were just too stubborn to realize it."

* * *

This had to be the weirdest fucking day he'd had since getting back, Sidwell mused, as he slipped into the shadows beyond the pavilion for a much needed fag.

He walked the grounds until he couldn't hear the laughter and raised voices from the tent before drawing a slim cigarette out of his pack and putting it to his lips. God, but he didn't know how much more of this night he could take. John's side, while shocked (though not all, Sidwell amended), were acting with barely suppressed happiness which was making the Morstan side distinctly angry. It was only a matter of time before this went all to hell and Sidwell was determined that once he was done here, he was going right back in there and getting Harrison and they were going back to London. They should have done right after the church.

He took a refreshing draw and closed his eyes, relishing the rush of nicotine to his system before blowing out the smoke, watching it fade away into the darkness.

Which was when he saw the couple, almost completely hidden in the shadows of a large tree. He wondered how he hadn't seen them before- he'd had to walk right past them- but it was obvious the lack of acknowledgement was mutual as they continued their performance with abandon.

Sidwell, squinting, could just make out them out as they frantically snatched and pawed at each other. They were obviously trying to be quiet but their gasps and choked off moans were still loud in the otherwise silent night and the wet sounds of their lips meeting again and again drifted to Sidwell's ears over the night sounds.

He suppressed a chuckle, shook his head, and was about to walk away and find another spot to smoke when the taller of the pair's head fell back, the shorter man angled his head down to bite at the exposed neck…and Sidwell saw the identity of the couple.

His eyes widened and he cursed before angrily flicking his cigarette away and stalking back inside.

Looks like he'd lost that bet too.


	6. These Men

**I forgot last time, but a big thank you to Johnsarmylady for help on the location of the wedding and travel times, etc. What an invaluable source of information you are, and I would have been lost (literally) without you.**

* * *

John still snored when he slept.

Sherlock, stretched out on his own bed, was fortunately not trying to sleep. The grating, nasal racket rising from the opposite side of the room would have kept him awake regardless, and had done many times in the past when he and John had shared a room during a case. The raucous snoring wasn't a facet of John he had forgotten about in his long absence, but it _was_ one he was…pleased to witness again.

It was so achingly familiar and predictable- that no matter what else may have changed, John still snored in his sleep when he was exhausted.

It was completely different from how John acted when he was awake.

Then, everything was different, unpredictable, just plain _wrong_.

He was nervous, apprehensive, distant. He held himself back from being _too friendly_ with Sherlock, something he had never done in the past, and even when they were on a case together and a spark of their old camaraderie flared to life, the unrestrained praise Sherlock had grown to rely on from his friend was noticeably absent. John was changed and Sherlock hated it.

It was so similar to what they had once shared and yet so far off the mark that Sherlock wanted to curse and growl and break their tenuous, fledging relationship just to escape the _hurt_ of it.

That, however, was impossible. He had waited two years to come back to John, to come back to _this_, and he wasn't about to ruin it.

Sentimental, disgustingly so, but there it was just the same.

Perhaps the worst aspect of their new friendship, what Sherlock absolutely couldn't stand, was how John now looked at him, the expression in his eyes which was constantly present no matter where they were or what they were doing.

It never went away, continually taunting Sherlock, reminding him just how much had changed.

He had witnessed it manifest the very day he came back, in that split second when John had spotted him on the street, his softened grief over the supposed death of his friend morphing into what it now was.

_Hurt_ (how, how could you, Sherlock? How could you do that to me?), _betrayal_ (why? Sherlock, just tell me why?), _anger_ over what Sherlock had done and forced John to witness, _resignation_ that of course Sherlock would have done such a thing as he never cared for other people's emotions, stupid I ever thought he cared for me. All this was underlined by _regret_ and the faintest traces of that emotion which had always been present in John's eyes when he looked at Sherlock, even when he was at his most angry, which Sherlock had reveled in and, if he were being honest, had blatantly taken advantage of on more than one occasion to get his own way.

Sherlock, for as long as he possibly could, had refused to name that emotion, steering clear of the emotional entanglement it posed.

Events since his return, however, had forced his hand.

He knew it was pointlessly sentimental but as John gave one particularly loud snort and rolled onto his side, Sherlock couldn't suppress the amused half-smile from curving along his lips. He allowed himself to close his eyes, listen to John snore, and, for a few blessed seconds, just _be_.

Be in the same room as John, the knowledge of which sent a surge of pleasure through his gut like an electric charge.

Be the one John had chosen above all others- _again_- which was something Sherlock would never tire, ever, of witnessing.

And just be content, something he had not be in…in years.

This false, self-induced calm didn't last, though. Soon enough, his thoughts crowded back in, rough and sharp edged and clamoring for his attention like so many harsh voiced crows, plucking and pecking at his peacefulness until it was left in unredeemable tatters.

The smile melted from his face and his eyes slowly opened, staring unseeingly into the darkness of the hotel room as his mind picked up speed, his thoughts tinged with doubt, panic, and the slightest tendrils of desperation.

To steady himself, Sherlock turned his head so he could see John more clearly in the sickly yellow light spilling in from the busy street outside. John slept peacefully, his face turned to Sherlock and Sherlock allowed himself to observe the lined face, the grey coloring the hair at his temples, the thin, slack mouth, and rethink the events of the past few weeks, the last few days, and determine the best way to move forward.

People always forgot just how much he could deduce from the smallest details. Even John, who had seen for himself just how Sherlock could glean the most astounding facts from seemingly insignificant and ordinary minutiae, frequently forgot.

John was a plethora of information for Sherlock's deducing eyes and Sherlock had been able to read _everything_ about his friend.

The slight turn of his collar had informed Sherlock John and Mary had been fighting, the tightening of his lip on the right side signaled that the argument had been about him, the tremor in the left index finger indicated John was still thinking about the fight- if the tremor moved to the left middle finger, it signaled John felt guilty about something.

John's left hand had grown increasingly shaky in the weeks leading up to his wedding. He had seemed not to notice.

Sherlock had been unable to look away.

_Bags under his eyes_- losing sleep, _hair rumpled more on one side than the other_- tossing and turning during the night, hadn't showered before leaving his flat, was _eager_ to leave his flat, _stubble_- always more than one day's growth, no longer intimate with Mary, seemingly unconcerned over this fact, _rolling his shoulders_- uneasy with Sherlock, uneasy when people asked questions about the upcoming wedding, _always avoiding eye contact when people did so_- answering quickly then changing the subject, back to the case at hand.

John's eyebrows, his smiles, his shoes, his grimaces, limps, exclamations, conversation- everything, _everything_ had all added up to one conclusion.

Sherlock, however, had kept silent.

And then yesterday.

John's distress had screamed out at Sherlock no matter where he looked on his friend's body and the thoughts and feelings he'd kept to himself the last few months suddenly _had_ to be said.

If there was even a chance John would….he had scarcely allowed himself to think such a thing, much less hope.

He honestly hadn't.

Sherlock had made no plans. The events of yesterday had been entirely unexpected and Sherlock had been unsure John would say yes to him.

He had expected a rejection.

John was unswervingly loyal. He wasn't the sort of man who abandoned his fiancé at the altar, even if he were having second thoughts. Sherlock had known that even as he begged John to choose him. Even as John kissed him and Sherlock wildly thought he was now ruined for other people and trembled against John, waiting for the dismissal, the "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't…" speech.

Instead, John had chosen him.

His mobile vibrated in his lap, startling him and jerking him out of his thoughts, and Sherlock flicked at the screen, already knowing from whom the text would be.

He was not surprised.

His lips tightened at the curt message and he glanced across at John, who continued to sleep, then slipped off the bed and crept from the room.

* * *

"This is perhaps the most selfish thing you have ever done, Sherlock." Mycroft stated as Sherlock climbed into the backseat of the black car. His voice held no recrimination, no derision, just simple acceptance over an undeniable fact.

Sherlock, refusing to be intimidated by his brother, met his bland stare head on, his own expression carefully neutral and bored before intentionally dropping to Mycroft's collar from which the faintest trace of a bite could be seen peeking from beneath the starched white cloth.

Mycroft's lips tightened and Sherlock smirked at his tiny victory.

"My own personal dalliances are no concern of yours-"

"Neither are mine _yours_."

"They are when you leave them behind for me to clean up." Mycroft smiled disdainfully. "_Again_."

Sherlock clenched his jaw as they stared at each other, a silent battle of wills commencing, but Mycroft looked away first, uninterested in winning petty little fights with Sherlock this morning.

"You may want to inform John that I managed to smooth everything over as much as possible, considering the circumstances, which were _less_ than ideal. I broke the news myself to the congregation, assisted rather dramatically by Miss Morstan, and the reception went off without a single skirmish, though there were many heated looks from both sides."

"And what did you tell Miss Morstan concerning the disappearance of her fiancé?"

"The truth."

"Which was?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing.

"That I witnessed yourself and John kissing in the vestibule of the church before leaving together and that I did not believe either of you meant to return."

_Oh_. That was unexpected but a very pleasing turn of events. Sherlock smiled smugly, something in his chest loosening with the knowledge that the entire situation wouldn't be so easy to dismiss as a momentary lapse in John's judgment. He had rarely been more thankful to Mycroft but he was sure the feeling wouldn't last long. It never did.

"Why did you text me, Mycroft?" Sherlock finally prodded when it seemed his brother had nothing further to say. "Simply to rehash the events of last night? I see you and Lestrade have reconciled in a spectacular fashion."

"I brought a bag for both you and John, in case you felt the need to 'lay low' for a few days, though I would suggest a change in location." Mycroft smirked. "A _hotel_, Sherlock? That's a bit cliché, don't you agree?"

Sherlock's spine straightened in indignation even as he secretly agreed with his brother. Even John had understood all the implications of their staying in a hotel together, the situation being what it was, if his violent blushes at check-in last night were anything to go by. It would be best to leave, Sherlock mentally conceded, if only to make John more comfortable about their situation, before nodding at Mycroft.

"It's been a pleasure, as always, Mycroft." He said sarcastically, moving to get out of the car but Mycroft's next words stopped him cold.

"Do you even care for John or is this merely a way to get everything back to the way you want it?"

"What?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft chided, shaking his head, and Sherlock grit his teeth at the patronization. "I understand you have been displeased with your reunion with John but is this really the best course of action-"

"Fuck off, Mycroft."

"You've already hurt John once. The outcome of this entire fiasco does not only concern _you_, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped angrily. "There are other people whose stake in this is much higher, John included, and you should think of them before you ruin their lives so cavalierly."

"That's quite an unexpected, self-righteous speech, brother dear. Do I have your increased association with Lestrade to credit for that?" Sherlock hissed, the harshly spoken words hitting too close to the mark for him to be comfortable with.

"If you hurt John once more and I doubt he will take you back."

Sherlock's disdainful look was eloquent enough as he slammed the door in his brother's face.

* * *

When John woke up, he was alone.

Which was perfectly fine for the first thirty seconds as he blissfully stretched, moaning in relief as sleep-stiffened muscles loosened and achy joints popped one after another. Sinking back into the warm, slightly scratchy covers, John hummed happily and thought about dozing off again. Without thinking, he swept his arm out, searching for Mary's warm body-

His eyes snapped open and he bolted upright in bed, reality crashing over him with all the startlingly clarity of a bucket of cold water.

Mary. The church. Their wedding. Waiting, nervous and unsure. Sherlock. His speech. Their kiss. Running out the side door into the bright sunshine. Heart pounding, exhilarated. The train ride…last night.

Oh, fucking bloody god damn it all to hell.

In the seconds between throwing back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, John realized something very significant.

He was _alone_.

A quick search of the small room proved that Sherlock was indeed, gone.

Vanished.

Disappeared.

There was no sign he had ever even been in the room. His bed was neatly made and pressed, there were no spare clothes littering the floor, no used bottles in the shower. There were no notes taped or leaned anywhere, and John, his heart thumping in dread the longer he searched, checked everywhere.

When he called down to the front desk, John was informed that yes, the tall, curly-haired man he'd arrived with last night had left an hour ago but no, he had not left any sort of message for him.

He then, in a fit of disbelieving unreality, turned his mobile on, watching the startup screen with a dry mouth and pounding heart.

John's eyes widened as he scrolled through his phone. There were over 50 missed calls, twenty voicemails, numerous texts, and none of them, not a single one, were from Sherlock.

Placing his mobile carefully on the bedside table, John's heart sank.

Sherlock had left.

John felt sick.

Had Sherlock regretted whatever it was they'd agreed to yesterday Had Sherlock decided that no, he actually _didn't_ want him, that he couldn't, on second thought, go through with this arrangement? Had he left early in the morning while John was still sleeping to spare John's feelings?

Or…or was he now back at Baker Street, waiting for John to come to him, move back in, and they could pretend yesterday had been an aberration and never speak of it again?

John didn't know. He really didn't.

If this had happened Before, he would've never doubted Sherlock. Not for a second. He would've never believed Sherlock would so callously abandon him.

But, John thought with a deep sigh, that was Before. This was After.

Now, his mistrust of Sherlock was always there, lurking in the back of his mind, insidious. Because Sherlock had already done it, abandoned him in the most painful and emotionally scarring way possible.

It would be entirely too easy for him to do it again.

Swallowing convulsively, John sank down onto the bed and fisted his hands until his knuckles turned white, wondering where he went from here.

He had just thrown away his entire, carefully constructed life for Sherlock- and then been abandoned in return. Well, he laughed humorlessly, scrubbing at his face as if that could erase what had happened, there was ironic justice in that he supposed.

Long minutes ticked past until John, decision made, sighed deeply and reached for his clothes, dragging them on with painful movements.

First, he would get dressed. Then, breakfast, even though his stomach roiled at the thought but he hadn't eaten since early yesterday morning. Next, he would check out and catch a cab to….and here his mind stalled again.

221B or his and Mary's flat? He probably wouldn't be welcomed at either place, he realized, stomach swooping. Maybe…maybe he could go to Harry's. He'd seen a voicemail from her but hadn't listened to it. Maybe she would let him stay a few days-

John whipped around as the lock clicked softly, the door swung open…and Sherlock strode in.

John was on his feet in an instant and Sherlock glanced at him as he tossed two bags onto his bed. His eyes widened slightly, before narrowing, sweeping over John and John stiffened at the deductive invasion.

"You thought I had left you." Sherlock stated, voice flat.

"You've done it before."

His reply brought Sherlock up short and they stared at each other, the air suddenly as thick as it had been the previous night.

"It was Mycroft." Sherlock explained, taking John by surprise. "He wanted to see me downstairs. Inform me of what happened yesterday. After we left."

John bit his lips, debating, then cleared his throat. "How's Mary?" He tried to make his voice sound off-hand and nonchalant, but failed.

Sherlock gave him a swift look before turning to his bag. "Mycroft didn't say. She did not attend the reception."

"They had the reception?"

Sherlock's lips twitched as John's own mouth quirked in horrified but suppressed humor. "Yes. Mycroft arranged it all, as he has a tendency to do."

"God…that must've been…bloody awful."

"I would hazard a guess the atmosphere was extremely tense."

John snorted and ambled over to stand beside Sherlock who was unpacking what looked like an entire suit from his small leather case.

"Is that my bag?" John asked, pointing to the other, slightly battered duffel sitting innocently on the coverlet.

"Yes."

Suppressing the question of how Mycroft had got a bag packed for him, knowing he wouldn't like the answer, John spun the duffel around and unzipped it, then stared blankly at the jeans and casual shirts that met his eye.

It seemed a lifetime ago, yesterday did, but it was suddenly…not as bleak as he'd thought when he first woke that morning. He wasn't alone in this.

John snuck a quick glance at Sherlock and found the other man watching him

"John…"

Long, cool fingers nudged beneath his chin and John let Sherlock tilt his head to the side and press their lips together. He closed his eyes, aware of his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, the soft, warm swell of Sherlock's lips against his own, the heat emanating from Sherlock and John's hands hovered, hesitatingly, before settling lightly on Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock's breathing hitched, lips parting beneath John's, and John didn't think. He took the invitation and dipped his tongue past those sweetly parted lips, gasping himself when Sherlock's tongue slid wetly along his own, eliciting shudders, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh.

Someone moaned- they pressed closer- and John hissed as Sherlock's hardness bumped against his hip, the combined shock and arousal of it jolting through him and his hips thrust forward in return, frotting against Sherlock's erection, before he had a chance to think about it.

"Sorry. Just…sorry." He whispered, pulling away and shaking his head to clear it, lust beating through his body in an entirely embarrassing way. He wanted to pull Sherlock closer and take him, fucking ravage him from the lips down because fuck if he hadn't thought about it- but right now wasn't the time for that.

Questioning eyes met his own and John sighed raggedly, breaking the intense eye contact to stare at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt.

If they were going to do…whatever this was, they would have to talk. Obviously.

And it wasn't a question of what he wanted to say, more _where_ he wanted to start.

Sherlock, correctly interpreting John's quandary, stepped away, giving the shorter man some space. "You may have the shower first." His voice was lower, sending a chill down John's spine and Sherlock's eyes flared at the visual before he looked away.

"Uh. Yeah. Great. Thanks."

And then what?

The unspoken question hung in the air and Sherlock smiled, the first real smile from him John had seen in days and his heart warmed at the sight.

"Then we go home."


	7. In Holy Matrimony

Martha Hudson had acquired what was possibly the worst hangover of her entire life.

Maybe it was because she hadn't got _so_ _drunk_ in close to twenty-five years, or maybe her memory had smoothed over the more revolting aspects of drinking, but she couldn't remember ever feeling so utterly rubbish. It had all seemed a lark in her younger, wilder days but now…now she merely felt disgusting. The filthy taste in her mouth, the fuzzy, impenetrable static in her head, and the various other protestations of her body all led her to one rather depressing conclusion: she was getting too old to be drinking that much.

She sat, slumped, at her kitchen table, resting her forehead wearily against her left palm, her other hand weakly clutched around a steaming cup of tea. She'd contemplated then dismissed taking an herbal soother for the pain, wanting to be sharp and alert for the confrontation to come when her wayward boys returned to their flat.

Mrs. Martha Hudson had quite the mouthful to say when it came to those two.

Not that she wasn't tremendously happy for the pair. She was- oh, how she was!

But the entire situation could've been handled much better than it had been.

John. Leaving that poor young woman on the very cusp of their wedding _without saying a word_, without even leaving a letter, showed a cruelty Mrs. Hudson hadn't thought him capable of-

And Sherlock. Dragging his feet and refusing to speak until the very last possible second, repressing emotions left, right, and center and almost wrecking everything and making himself and John miserable…

It went beyond the pale.

Perhaps sensing the dressing down they would be receiving from their landlady, Sherlock and John hadn't come home last night. It was now well past noon and there was still no sign of them.

Mrs. Hudson wondered if she might've missed them coming in while she was passed out in her bed.

She would've thought they'd be making all kinds of ruckus this morning, especially considering, well, _how things were _between them now.

There had been no sounds from above, though, and Mrs. Hudson knew, from years of living beneath Sherlock and John, that the men were nigh incapable of not making noise. There would be stomping from bedroom to loo, the pipes clanking and groaning as one or the other showered, more heavy footsteps from loo to kitchen, or, if it were Sherlock, from loo to bedroom, bedroom to living room. John would make breakfast, banging pans around and switching the kettle off when it whistled. Snippets of their ensuing spat would filter down as John chided Sherlock to eat and Sherlock maintained he didn't need it.

Mrs. Hudson could never keep the indulgent smile from her face as she listened to her boys begin their day together. It had been too long since she'd had the pleasure of listening to them and it was almost with eagerness that she waited to hear them again.

Though maybe…maybe they were having a lie in after the events of yesterday. They certainly, doubtlessly needed it.

_She_ certainly had.

Mycroft Holmes, bless his soul, had made sure she'd got home safely from Northampton last night. She was very fuzzy about much of what had taken place at the reception but seemed to remember something rather nasty finally being shouted by a sloshed member of the Morstan family and a few angry words being exchanged between the shouter and an equally soused Harry Watson. Molly had looked stricken and hastily ushered her out of the pavilion, where Mycroft and Detective Inspector Lestrade had intercepted them and Mycroft had quickly and graciously offered to escort them back to London.

They'd caught the train, Mrs. Hudson remembered, and she had drifted in and out of a warm, syrupy sleep the entire ride back, listening to the steady murmurs of Molly, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Mycroft as they discussed everything that had taken place. The cab ride from the train to Baker Street was a large blur but she remembered it had been Molly who'd gently, patiently helped her to bed once at the flat. She should've been dumped on her sofa in such a sodden state, Mrs. Hudson thought reproachfully, but Molly would never have done- she was a sweet girl.

Mrs. Hudson decided to bake something nice for her once she was feeling better.

Taking a tentative sip of her tea, Mrs. Hudson winced and set the cup down sharply on the table. Trying to control the roiling of her stomach, she wished she'd made the brew much weaker.

She felt miserable and longingly thought of her herbal soothers. Maybe it couldn't hurt if she just had _one_…

As if on cue, the sound of the front door opening resounded through her flat and Mrs. Hudson perked up, lifting her head from her hand and glancing at the door. She could just make out, through the rippling glass, two familiar, distinctly male shapes entering the hall, the taller one holding open the door for the shorter one. They quickly disappeared up the stairs, their silhouettes made bulkier by the bags they carried, and Mrs. Hudson, smiling, resolved to give them some space and a little while to sort themselves out before she went up and took them to task for yesterday.

After all, they were just got together. Sherlock would be ever so pleased to have John to himself and wouldn't appreciate her intruding.

* * *

It felt surreal to be standing in 221B again.

He hadn't been here in months. Not since that first night when Sherlock had come back from the "dead," and even then he'd been…well…the visit hadn't been pleasant.

They'd shouted at each other. John, too angry and hurt to listen to what Sherlock was saying and Sherlock, disappointed that John wasn't happier he was back and annoyed that John _wasn't listening_.

John, fists clenched and shaking, had almost hit Sherlock. Sherlock, easily deducing his mental and emotional state, had asked John to do it, said it would doubtless make him feel better, and he'd even offered John his smooth, alabaster cheek, eyes hard and sparkling in the low lights. He'd held himself steady, body tensed, waiting for the blow to fall.

John hadn't, though. Instead, surprising both himself and probably Sherlock, he had cried, turning away from Sherlock so he wouldn't see and tamping down his helpless, furious sobs so hard it actually _hurt_ and left his stomach muscles sore for days after. It had just been too much, overwhelming.

Two hours ago he'd thought Sherlock dead, a pointless suicide in a city that saw over 500 such deaths annually. Two hours ago, he'd still thought he could've prevented Sherlock's death, had carried around that burden of guilt, that gnawing question of "did I accidentally push him into it?" Two hours ago…and then he'd seen that familiar face in front of him, defying logic, and wrecking his world and not even realizing, or caring, that he was doing it. Letting John know that the pain of the last two years had been meaningless, a cruel joke.

John had been, in a word, devastated.

He hadn't expected anything approaching sympathy from Sherlock. He'd expected the newly alive man to stand and stare at him, helpless as to know what to do in such a situation, or maybe even scoff and wonder at John's emotional state. _"I'm alive, John, this is all pointless…"_

Instead, John had been entirely surprised when long, thin arms had wrapped tentatively around him and then pulled him back against a solid chest, enveloping him in comforting heat. Curls had tickled his neck as Sherlock bent forward, resting his head against John's shoulder and tightening his grip on the shorter man, hands fisting slightly in John's shirt, anchoring them together. John, closing his eyes rapturously, had wanted to drown in the sensation, sink gratefully into the feeling and finally convince his disbelieving mind that Sherlock was really _alive_.

Then Sherlock had spoken…and shattered everything.

"I'm sorry." He had murmured softly, sounding so sincere and contrite- and John had mocked before he'd thought. It had been a knee-jerk reaction, his pain and fury making him small and spiteful at a time when he didn't mean to be. Or maybe he _had_ meant it. Maybe he'd wanted to hurt Sherlock in return for all he'd gone through, all the agony he'd felt for those two years. It was hard to sort through all the feelings from that chaotic night.

It still was. Not enough time had passed to dull the sharp-edged emotions.

That night, though, one thing was clear: John hadn't wanted to hear apologies.

"Do you even know what you're sorry for?" John had asked, feeling Sherlock go absolutely still behind him. "Or are you just _saying_ it?" His voice had come out clogged but the vindictive derision was hard to miss…and Sherlock, of course, hadn't missed it.

The comforting weight of Sherlock's arms around his middle had gone and when John turned around, not even caring that his eyes were wet and still streaming, Sherlock was standing on the opposite side of the room, eyes hurt as he regarded John- and that had just made John even angrier. Sherlock hadn't the right to be hurt, not in this situation.

He hadn't been back to 221B since.

They'd worked together, solved a few cases, but John had never ventured past the front door and Sherlock had never asked him to.

Now, standing inside the sunny sitting room of the flat, memories of that dark night flooding through his mind, John was surprised to find that he was genuinely happy to be back.

It felt like finally coming home after a long, stressful day.

John almost instinctively moved toward the kitchen to put the kettle on…before reality stopped him short.

He didn't live here.

This wasn't his flat anymore.

It was also doubtful Sherlock kept tea stocked. Certainly not the good kind, the kind John had always bought them. If it were left up to Sherlock to buy tea he chose randomly and without an eye to taste, oftentimes resulting in a concoction that was undrinkable. John smiled at the memory and glanced at his friend.

Sherlock was hastily flitting around the sitting room, trying to speedily tidy the chaotic, messy flat. It was obvious he hadn't been expecting anyone because the flat was, quite frankly, a disaster area.

Cardboard boxes of his things were stacked and scattered everywhere, most of them half-unpacked and even a few still taped up. Newspapers, some wadded up while others carefully folded so certain articles were displayed, were tossed about the room and covered the sofa, chairs, and bare floor. Manila envelopes and case files were stacked precariously on Sherlock's desk and the floor surrounding it, some buried beneath the newspaper patina. Some had even been tossed carelessly into the cold fireplace and John knew Lestrade wouldn't be happy when he saw _that_.

There was a biggish tank on the mantelpiece containing an actual live mouse, which hid beneath the wood shavings when John drew closer and saw that, oddly enough, the tank also contained a possibly dead snake if the slight smell was anything to go by. Wrinkling his nose, he turned away, only to spot a collection of a few dozen padlocks of varying sizes scattered around the base of his old chair.

"Been busy?" John asked, stooping to get a better look at the locks, some of which were rusty while others looked brand new.

Sherlock turned, followed John's line of sight to the locks and shrugged, stuffing a lady's handbag into a cardboard box and then tossing the box behind the sofa.

John resisted the old urge to tell him that just because the mess was out of sight didn't mean it was gone.

"Not unpacked yet?" John asked instead, eyeing a few of the cardboard boxes of Sherlock's things that littered the flat, one of them that sat open at his feet. He felt a twinge of guilt, remembering Mrs. Hudson sadly packing Sherlock's things away after…after. John hadn't been able to, though he knew he should have helped her. She shouldn't have had to do that alone but he…just hadn't been capable.

"Hmm? No. Well. Just the necessities." Sherlock muttered distractedly, gathering an armful of trainers from the sofa and dumping them into another open cardboard box, then kicking it away to clear more of a space to walk. He spun around, fixing John with an uneasy look, watching him look around the cluttered flat.

"Um…" John trailed off, not knowing what to say-

"Do you want something to eat?"

"What?"

Sherlock, not waiting for an answer, shifted around John and strode into the kitchen. "Do you want something to eat? We didn't eat before leaving the hotel and I know you didn't have anything to eat yesterday. You must be starving."

John watched in mystified amusement as Sherlock began opening and shutting cupboards, ostensibly looking for something edible in his kitchen.

It was obviously a wasted effort.

It was then, as Sherlock made a disgusted face and slammed the fridge- but not before John caught a glimpse of bagged flesh and congealing blood- that John realized Sherlock was just as much aware of the awkwardness of their situation as he was. It wasn't just him inventing things or still being resentful. If even Sherlock were aware of it…

There was nothing else for it.

"What now?"

Sherlock glanced at John uncertainly. "Sorry?"

"What now, Sherlock? What do we do now…where do we go from…from this?"

A shrug, an elegant lift of those wide shoulders, carelessly brushing off John's question. "You move back in." Sherlock replied simply.

John waited for elaboration.

None was forthcoming.

"O-k." John licked his lips. "That's what I'm saying, Sherlock- where do I…Ok, I move in the flat. Are we…" He huffed, frowning. "What are we now? To…to each other?"

_What were they to each other?_

Sherlock froze in his quest for something fit for human consumption and pinned John with an incredulous look. Had John really asked him that question? Didn't he already know?

Was he still...? Ah, yes, there it was. The evidence was written all over John's body.

He could see John's guilt in his posture, over what had taken place, and that guilt could very easily tear him away from Sherlock and send him careering back to Mary, full of apologies and regrets. There was also doubt written on his face, doubt this was what Sherlock really wanted, and uncertainty this could even work between them.

But there was also…

John's jaw clenched, the muscles jumping beneath his skin, and the finest of tremors shook his right hand.

Sherlock's eyebrow jumped. He knew what that meant.

It was almost too easy.

He almost had what he wanted in the palm of his hand. He was so close to his goal he could taste it in the very air between himself and John.

He crossed the room to where John stood, the smaller man's face becoming more and more forbidding the closer Sherlock got, as if he didn't trust him and his intentions. Sherlock stopped with barely inches separating them, feeling the tension radiating from John.

He let his eyes purposefully linger on John's lips, eyes darkening, calculating, and he didn't even need to glance up to know that John's pupils had dilated. He could feel the shorter man's breath quickening and see, from his peripheral vision, the pulse at his neck beating a quick rhythm against his skin.

"What are we to each other?" Sherlock echoed, moving even closer and John froze, letting him. Sherlock paused with barely a hairsbreadth separating their lips and, in a calculated move, flicked his tongue over his own lips, catching John's at the same time and he heard John's breathing hitch, lips parting without conscious thought beneath the lightning quick assault of Sherlock's tongue.

And Sherlock told a truth he had always known, as bone deep and certain as his own sense of who he was.

"We are _everything_ to each other, John."

Triumph flared when that barely shaking right hand curved around his hip possessively, palming the curve of his bone, and he closed his eyes as John rose slightly on his toes to seal their lips together.


	8. Which Is Commended To Be Honorable

**So sorry I've left this update for so long! Thanks for sticking with me, guys!**

**I want to take this opportunity to thank the guest reviewer **"elahe"** who is always so incredibly wonderful and supportive of my stories and leaves the nicest reviews. Thank you, darling! I read every review and I wish I could respond to each one but I can't to guest reviewers.**

* * *

John sat on the mattress of his old bed, in his old room which was now starkly, depressingly bare and empty, and was once again accosted by the sensation that this was all an incredibly life-like dream from which he'd eventually wake and be crushed that none of it had been real, none of it had actually happened.

He was getting thoroughly _sick_ of feeling this way.

The problem was, he'd had dreams like this before and it was therefore an experience he was repellently familiar with. This "dream feeling"- these circumstances- seemed eerily similar.

Or well, _parts_ of it did. There were others parts that were decidedly…_not_.

This wasn't a dream, though.

John could _feel_ the rough damask ticking of the mattress beneath his hands as he tightly gripped the edges, _see_ the glittering dust motes that spiraled and danced on the bright sunbeams, tickling his nose and drying his throat. He could feel that same sun warming his back with invisible fingers of heat, making it too hot in the small room for a summer's day. That had always been an annoyance when he lived here, he remembered. Staying in the room at the top of the house in the summer months meant all that hot air rose and filled his room, making it so oppressively hot it felt like breathing in water. Sleep had been next to impossible and once he actually managed to drop off, the heat made dreams of Afghanistan not far away.

Closing his eyes, breathing in the familiarly humid air, John could almost hear the soft strains of Sherlock's violin from downstairs, as he'd always done on those dreadful nights, playing steadily and soothingly on as John's frightened shout still echoed around his darkened bedroom.

John frowned at that, wondering if he'd move back in here or…or downstairs.

If he slept _here_, the room would need a good tidying up. Dust was collecting in the corners, despite being regularly swept out, and there was a patch of plaster peeling from the corner of the ceiling. Maybe a nice coat of paint, John mused, glancing around, taking note of fading patches and the baseboards were looking a bit dingy.

John grimaced.

He was stalling.

From downstairs filtered Mrs. Hudson's steady voice, high-pitched in indignation, rising and falling with emotion as she took Sherlock to task for yesterday. Occasionally, her monologue was interspersed with Sherlock's distinctive rumble, seemingly defended himself, but John couldn't make out exactly what they were saying. Not that he was trying very hard to do so. He knew his turn with their landlady would come later and he'd hear more than enough then.

No, he'd come up here for privacy, needing to do something he'd been avoiding but it was now…decidedly _un_-avoidable.

His mobile lay harmlessly beside him, and John stared at it, trying to work up the nerve to power it back on and listen to the messages he'd only glimpsed this morning.

He knew they'd be unpleasant. It was why he'd been putting it off for so long. He had a feeling he knew what all those voicemails and texts would contain and frankly…he just wasn't up to it.

This was his fault, though.

He'd done this. It was time to face the consequences.

John sighed, hitting the power button and bleakly watching his phone go through start-up. When his home screen burst into life, John immediately scrolled through to his voicemail, figuring those were the most important messages. The texts could wait.

He waited on tenterhooks for the first message to start. He knew from whom it would be.

"John?"

Even knowing didn't lessen the pain when that familiar voice came on the line, wobbling and in tears, a world of hurt contained in that single bleated syllable.

John closed his eyes, pain, self-loathing, and guilt lancing through his gut until he wanted to throw up. He gripped the mobile tighter.

_Oh, Mary_.

"John, where _are you_? Mycroft just…just told me about-" Mary dissolved into sobs and the guilt in John's gut roiled. "Did you…did you really? With _him_?...Just…John, _where are you_? Did you really…did you really just _leave_? Without…I don't understand. John. Call me back. _Please_."

"End of message. To hear this message again, press-"

John stabbed at the number to delete the message.

He never wanted to hear that sort of message again.

A few seconds later, he did.

"John."

_Oh, god._

Mary's voice was stronger in this message but clogged. Not crying at the time she'd sent the message but obviously had been recently.

"Where. Are. You? Mycroft told me you were with him- that- that you _left with him_. K-kissed him. That can't…John, you _kissed him_?" Her voice broke, rising impossibly high, and John could imagine the incredulous look on her face, the three little lines appearing above her brows which he'd always taken pleasure in kissing away. "Why would you…John, all our family and friends are here. What am I to tell them? What…what am I to _say_? I don't even...I don't even know what's happened."

_God, love, I am so sorry._

John clutched the mobile to his ear helplessly as he listened to Mary squeak, obviously trying to hold in her tears so she could get through the message.

_Please, don't cry. Don't cry. I am so sorry, Mary, so fucking sorry. You have no idea._

"John. What am I supposed to say? How could you…how could you leave me here? _Now_?"

"End of message. To hear this-"

"Message deleted."

John ended the call and paused, taking a steadying breath and fighting against the sting of tears in his own eyes. The pain in Mary's voice had been raw, devastated- and he'd caused that.

_All that_ had been because of _him_.

The truth of the matter was that he'd never even paused to think. Yesterday, he'd not spared one tiny thought about what he'd be doing to Mary. It hadn't crossed his mind as he'd tugged Sherlock to him and kissed him, as he'd eagerly followed him from the church.

He'd thrown away his and Mary's life together, their future, trodden on their past like it was rubbish and _not even cared. _

John had never felt so low and pathetic in all his life. So totally, irredeemably _worthless_.

What sort of selfish bastard did this entire thing make him?

Disgust with himself made John redial his voicemail and, with clenched jaw and blazing eyes, he tensed as the next message clicked on.

* * *

"This was poorly done of you, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson chastened as soon as the door to John's bedroom upstairs closed. She'd never fallen out of the habit of thinking of that bedroom as "John's" even though it'd been more than two years since that man had inhabited the flat. Old habits and wishful thinking, she supposed.

Sherlock sighed, all petulance, crossed legs, and steepled fingers in his armchair as he coolly regarded his landlady.

"To whom should I apologize?" He asked, lifting an insolent brow. "You? I know you're inordinately pleased John's returned to the flat, as well as our…current arrangement. Don't try to deny it." Sherlock smirked as Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms defensively. "The wedding guests? They had dinner and a _show_ from all apparent reports that have reached my ears and enough gossip and speculation to last them the next six months."

"You might want to apologize to John." Mrs. Hudson said quietly, making Sherlock frown in confusion.

"Why would I do that?" He asked. "I didn't abduct him from his wedding, nor were coercive means used to make him leave. I made him an offer and he accepted…and left under his own free will."

"You might want to apologize for putting him in that situation in the first place, Sherlock. For putting him in the situation he's in _now_." Mrs. Hudson glanced upstairs and Sherlock followed her gaze, frown deepening.

John had snuck his mobile with him upstairs, and since he'd gone to the trouble of subterfuge, Sherlock had pretended he hadn't seen it. But of course he had.

The fact John had snuck away from him to listen to his messages from yesterday was hurtful, a bit worrying, but Sherlock knew John coveted his privacy so perhaps it was nothing.

Still. He knew he couldn't keep the unpleasantness that was undoubtedly contained in those messages from John for long, but he'd hoped for at least a few days before John retrieved those messages. Enough time to win John further, secure him completely before Mary had a chance to steal him back by appealing to that side of John that could never say no to weeping women in distress.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair in agitation, all his thoughts focused upstairs, completely missing what Mrs. Hudson said next.

"Sorry?"

"The two of you are in a world of mess and hurt and it all could have been avoided if you'd just talked to John. I don't understand why you didn't tell John _before_ his wedding." Mrs. Hudson repeated, pressing her lips together in disapproval.

Sherlock gave her a look that brooked no foolishness. "You know why."

Mrs. Hudson's lips tightened further in displeasure. Oh, yes, she knew why.

_Now_.

She'd often wondered, of course, having two men living together as flatmates, claiming only friendship, and yet acting as lovesick for each other as Mrs. Turner's married ones next door. She'd wondered why nothing more ever came of their arrangement but then Sherlock had…_left_ and John had left as well, moved out and on. The idea had still existed as one of life's little oddities to be mulled over sometimes when there was nothing on the telly and something had happened that day to remind Mrs. Hudson of her two boys.

Then Sherlock had miraculously returned, moved back in, and life had started returning back to what it'd once been…except for one obvious missing feature.

Sherlock hadn't seemed to mind John had his own flat and had still worked with and saw John on an almost daily basis. Mrs. Hudson had thought it was just _her_ who felt the flat was still…somehow _empty_ without its other inhabitant. It felt like completing a puzzle and finding out there was still one piece missing, or putting your knickers on the wrong way round and only realizing it when you were out the door and walking down the road.

But Sherlock had seemed unperturbed by it.

Until the night Mrs. Hudson had found him morose and drunk on the sofa one night two weeks before John's intended nuptials. It had been the night they'd all gone out for a dinner and the evening hadn't gone well.

Or, on second thought, the evening had gone very well for John and Mary.

It had therefore decidedly _not_ gone well for Sherlock.

Enquires as to what was wrong were met with scoffs and derision until Mrs. Hudson had lost patience. Then, the sodden, besotted man had lisped his way through his feelings of unrequited love, general miserableness, and resolve to never tell John any of it.

"I remember." Mrs. Hudson replied. "And I told you _then_ it was a silly reason-

"And your opinions _at the time_ were duly noted." Sherlock rudely cut Mrs. Hudson off, standing and straightening his cuffs. "Now, if you don't mind-"

"_Sit back down_, young man. I _do_ mind and we're not finished here."

Sherlock's mouth snapped closed and he sank back into his chair. "I see your hangover is particularly vicious this afternoon. Not taken a soother yet?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"And I'm all ears, waiting with bated breath."

"Don't take that tone with me, young man." Mrs. Hudson sighed and squared her shoulders. "You may want to consider apologizing to Mary as well."

It couldn't be proven, but Mrs. Hudson felt the temperature in the room suddenly drop twenty degrees.

"And _why_," Sherlock drawled, "would I want to _apologize_ to her?"

"She's been hurt by all this as well. And like it or not but she's important to John. He loved her."

_Obviously not as much as he loved me_, was on the tip of his tongue but Sherlock caught it last second. He knew it sounded petulant and childish but he couldn't help reveling in the fact that John had chosen _him_ over _her_.

Sherlock grunted, dismissing the idea, ready for this conversation of unsolicited emotional advice to be over. He turned mischievous eyes to his landlady. "Despite my methods," He smiled, "are you really unhappy with the outcome?"

Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a stern look- the effect of which was slightly ruined by her pleased smile.

* * *

"Doctor Watson. Undoubtedly my brother has instructed you to power off your mobile, however in the event you _do_ receive this message before I see you next, I wish to inform you that I have the situation at your, ah, _wedding_ in-hand."

Mycroft. The inherent censure and disdain in his voice at what he and Sherlock had done was powerful, shaming, and John winced at the foreshadowing given to "before I see you next."

_That_ was a conversation he could very much do without. Older brother threatening him if he broke younger brother's heart, or a good telling off for saddling Mycroft with taking care of the ghastly reception? It was a toss-up.

Neither option was appealing.

"Message deleted. Next message…"

"John."

John squinched his eyes closed as Mary's voice came back on the line- sobbing inconsolably, taking ragged, juddering breaths.

"_Why_? Why would you do this to me? To _us_? John?"

John listened as Mary continued to sob, gripping the mobile to his ear, unable to stop the trickle of moisture at his own eyes as she cried.

"Just tell me _why_. Did you ever- ever love me or was I just a- a placeholder- a fucking bed warmer until Sherlock came back? Because that's what this feels like, John. Oh…god…"

John slumped forward, resting his head in his hand, and shutting his eyes as Mary continued crying.

"That's what it feels like. Like…like I was nothing more than a cheap….And- and here's the rub, John. The really pathetic part. I don't hate you. God, I want to- fuck, I want to hate you so much but…I just can't. God, I _want_ to hate you."

"End of message. To replay this message, press 1, to delete this message-"

"Message deleted. New message sent yesterday at-"

John severed the connection and tossed his phone away, unable to take any more.

He'd fucked things up good and proper_. Good and fucking proper_.

Mary was heartbroken, Mycroft was pissed, all his friends and family now thought he was gay- as well as thinking he was the lowest of the low and definitely pissed at him for that as well. He'd upended his life, destroyed his relationship with Mary, most certainly with her family who had all been lovely and accepting of John, and wrecked a few others along with it.

And as much as John hated it, as horrible as listening to those messages made him feel (and there were tons more to get through, the thought of which made his stomach twist)…it didn't make him regret doing it. Not in the slightest.

And _that_ made him feel even _worse_.

Footsteps on the stairs had John panicking and he hurriedly swiped at the moisture which had pooled at the corners of his eyes and a few errant tracks sweeping down his cheeks, knowing Sherlock would be able to deduce it in a second and that would be _all sorts_ of not good-

"John?"

John sagged in relief at the sound of his former landlady's voice and he cleared his throat, ridding himself of the dreadful, heavy lump that came with crying before calling out. "Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

Opening the door, Mrs. Hudson glanced around briefly before spying John sat on the bed and smiled tentatively.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." John managed a smile but the look he got from the elderly lady let him know she'd seen through that lie quick enough. Mrs. Hudson didn't pursue the subject, though, instead glancing around the sparse little room.

"Sherlock said you were moving back in." She began without preamble, leaving John wrong-footed and struggling a bit to catch up. He'd been expecting a good scolding.

"Uhm…yeah. Yeah, it'll take a while to get things sorted and actually…_move_, but…well. I am. Yeah."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, glancing around the room again. "That'll be nice. It's been so empty since… So quiet. Almost made me wish Sherlock would shoot more holes in my wall." Mrs. Hudson laughed. "How silly of me."

John smiled weakly back. "Not at all."

He understood that sentiment all too well.

Silence fell, each lost in their own ruminations, most of them centered round the man downstairs who was currently trying to stealthily straighten up the sitting room before John came back down.

"This room'll need a new coat of paint." Mrs. Hudson finally broke the silence. "And the curtains will need to be changed. Those are moth eaten and rotting. They were a gift from my late husband but…I always liked the fabric."

John nodded, unsure what to say.

"Though perhaps you won't be moving upstairs?"

An awkward question coming from the elderly lady, but the thought had crossed John's mind too. Honestly, he didn't know. Probably, but it seemed like something he'd need to discuss with Sherlock before it happened and as hard as he tried, John couldn't prevent the flood of images from worming their way into his consciousness should he be staying downstairs instead.

Cognizant of his landlady's gaze, John made an effort to will those lascivious thoughts away.

But he would in no way be _averse_ to moving in downstairs.

"Maybe not." John finally replied and Mrs. Hudson nodded, as if she'd expected that, and perched herself beside John on the edge of the bed.

"There might be one from me on there but I'd prefer it if you went ahead and deleted it." Mrs. Hudson confided, gesturing to the mobile lying between them on the bed and John blinked at her.

"Did you curse me out or-"

"Oh, no, dear, nothing like that." Mrs. Hudson rushed to explain, fiddling with her hands and John watched a slight blush tinge her cheeks. "I'm just afraid…I might have been slightly tippy when sending the message so it's best to just delete it and spare us both the embarrassment of whatever it was I said."

John nodded, gave Mrs. Hudson a promise to delete the message before playing it, and they lapsed back into silence again.

"What are you going to say to Mary?" Mrs. Hudson asked delicately,

John straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. "The truth. She…she deserves the truth." As soon as he precisely figured out what that truth was.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I think that's wise, dear."

She clasped his hand in hers, opened her mouth-

And they both jumped at a sudden crash from downstairs, frozen and wide-eyed as the sounds of breaking glass tinkled worryingly then faded, and each held their breath, waiting for more.

When only an ominous silence came from below, John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged significant looks before moving as one toward the door.


	9. Among All Men

**Thanks for the support, love, and encouragement for this story! **

**Just to keep everyone informed, next chapter will contain a bit of smut so you have been warned in advance. I've been asked by a few people if such goings-on will be included and yes, yes they will. That's not _all_ this story is about, though :)**

* * *

Coming downstairs to find Sherlock with a suspiciously innocent expression on his face and total chaos surrounding him wasn't a new experience for John.

What _was_ new was the frankly astonishing amount of broken glass, bits of ceramic, glitter, and water littering the floor and seeping into the carpet.

"Sherlock…" John, wide-eyed, surveyed the disaster incredulously, while Mrs. Hudson tsked and hurried into the kitchen for towels.

"They were for a case- years ago- involving cocaine smuggled in snow globes." Sherlock explained, his voice clipped in annoyance as John stooped down to pick up the chipped remains of a miniature London Eye. "I didn't realize the bottom of the box they were in was faulty and…well…" He gestured impatiently at the mess before huffing, hands on hips, biting his lips and fidgeting, clearly upset with the mishap.

"I told you to be careful with some of those boxes." Mrs. Hudson chastened, handing John a roll of paper towels. "They'd gone all thin at the bottoms-"

"Perhaps they wouldn't have done if _someone_ hadn't stored my things in the _damp_." Sherlock replied through grit teeth.

"Where else would you have had me put them?" Mrs. Hudson demanded, eyes narrowing, squaring off against her angry tenant. "You're just lucky I kept everything, Sherlock Holmes! I could have binned the lot and had it taken off my hands-"

"You _did_ bin my science equipment."

"I _did not_!" Mrs. Hudson cried in outrage. "I donated everything to that school and those students enjoyed it-"

"You may as well have binned it for all the good donating it to teenagers did." Sherlock retorted, looking pained at the idea of his precious instruments in the hands of adolescents who could never fully appreciate them, no doubt using them to look at their own bogies or other fluids when the teacher's back was turned.

John cast a furtive glance behind him. Judging by the state of the kitchen table and every available workspace therein, Sherlock had wasted no time in either purchasing or "borrowing" more science equipment. As far as John knew, Sherlock's "binned" equipment hadn't been special in any way, so he didn't understand the fuss about their removal. He'd thought it was a good idea at the time Mrs. Hudson had done it.

"You weren't here, at any rate, to make use of it. And I didn't know you'd be coming back." Mrs. Hudson tetchily reminded him. "You should be thanking me that I saved most of your things and now you've got it all back save the science things and a few shirts."

The topic of Sherlock's shirts, however, were a sore subject for him and Mrs. Hudson was immediately angry at herself for reminding him of it.

"_A few shirts_ turned into my _entire wardrobe_, if I need remind you." Sherlock snarled, seemingly ready to start a whole new argument with his landlady over his ruined attire before John decided they'd snapped at each other enough for one day. He was getting a devil of a headache and it wasn't even past 2 yet.

"All right. All right, let's just…get this all sorted." He said, stepping into the fray, glassing crunching beneath his shoes. "Here." He thrust the roll of paper towels into Sherlock's chest, receiving a stone-cold glare before Sherlock snatched them. "Clean this mess up." He instructed.

"Can I get you anything, Mrs. Hudson?" John asked courteously, turning to their landlady and smiling, trying to make up for Sherlock.

Behind him, Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust before acquiescing and sinking to his knees to start the mopping up.

"Oh, no, dear. I just think I'll go downstairs and take one of my soothers and have a bit of a lie down." She was already moving to the door, making her retreat. "I'll leave you two to it. Let me know if you need anything."

Once her footsteps had receded, John glanced down where Sherlock was lackadaisically swirling his towel around the glittering water before looking about the cluttered sitting room.

It needed to be cleaned in a bad way.

John was honestly at a loss as to where to even _start_ with the flat this time. It probably wasn't really his place, he thought, pivoting slowly on the spot, surveying the general chaos surrounding him. All the boxes contained Sherlock's things, not John's, and it was therefore down to Sherlock to put them away.

They needed to get them put up though. The sooner the better. John's possessions would be making their way to the flat soon…

He sucked in a sharp breath in excited anticipation. He'd be lying if he said the idea of living at the flat again didn't appeal to him, filled him with nervous enthusiasm and a sense of purpose. Of going backto normal. Of rightness.

But…

His excitement warred with oppressive feelings of guilt, guilt that had magnified after listening to those few voicemails upstairs, until all John felt was an oddly happy melancholy, a sad sort of sickly _yellow_ mood, not conducive to anything.

Definitely not conducive to blithely moving into his former flat with his new gay boyfriend.

John tried to shove it all away, all those pesky, unwanted but entirely justifiable emotions, before Sherlock saw.

Sherlock, who had trouble understanding other's emotions at the best of times. Put him in a situation where the emotional water was already muddy and one would be courting disaster.

When their eyes met over the shattered remains of a case long past, John hoped he was successful at it.

* * *

John's eyes were sad.

Sherlock, his own heart beating hollowly in his chest, chose not to say anything about it and kept silent. People always forgot just how much he could deduce…

* * *

After brief negotiations, John himself cleaned up the glitter and the shattered remains of well-known tourist attractions, smiling Santa's, and rustic cottages which had all once upon a time been used to smuggle narcotics. Sherlock flitted about the room, opening cardboard boxes and dispatching the contents within with speed and acuity.

John wondered, as he scraped shards of glass into his dustpan, just why Sherlock hadn't unpacked his things until just this moment.

It'd been months since he'd "returned." Months since he'd moved back into the flat. He'd had ample time to do so, even with the flood of cases he'd enjoyed.

But he hadn't.

Instead, he'd unpacked only the essentials, replaced the necessary things like his clothing and science equipment and computer, and began living an odd sort of half-life amidst the cardboard boxes of his former life.

The idea didn't sit right with John.

Catching the man in question staring at him out of the corner of his eye, John swallowed heavily and decided to ask him about it.

Later.

* * *

Beatrice skidded into her kitchen, banging her hip painfully on the corner of the island and cursing through the pain as quietly as possible, before finally managing to pluck her ringing mobile up and stab frenziedly at the green button.

Mary had just got to sleep (after crying her eyes out over staying in Beatrice's spare bedroom when she should've been on her honeymoon, shagging her husband in some hotel room) and the last thing Beatrice wanted was for her to wake up. And start crying again.

"Hello?"

"Bea-_trice_! Hello, darling!"

Beatrice winced, nose crinkling in disgust, as she recognized the voice at the end of the line, and she wished she'd checked the caller id before answering. Fuck it all. Just what she bloody needed right now.

Mentally sighing, Beatrice pasted a smile to her face and managed to reply magnanimously. Enough. "Gerri, hi! How are you?"

"_Unf_. Completely exhausted after last night. I didn't reach home until almost _three_ this morning! The taxis had trouble finding the church, the trains from Northampton weren't on schedule, and it was just a complete cock-up all around. I _told_ Mary, when she wanted to get married in Northampton, that it'd be a terrible inconvenience for her guests but she _insisted_." Gerri sighed and Beatrice, gritting her teeth, could imagine her flipping her short blonde bob around importantly, like some model in a hair advert. It was trademark "Gerri," as was the false camaraderie and cutting, nasty remarks disguised as well-meant compliments.

"Anyway," Gerri suddenly said brightly, "how are _you_, darling? You must have had a rougher night of it than I."

Marveling at how quickly Gerri could go from put-upon bitch to concerned friend, Beatrice checked that the bedroom door was still closed before answering shortly. "I'm fine, thanks."

She let the silence stretch uncomfortably. She knew Gerri was waiting expectantly, with bated breath, for her to expand on that statement, to incredulously ask if Gerri could _believe_ the nerve of John Watson in leaving Mary and start spilling everything about how things had gone at the wedding and the hotel, a play-by-play account of each and every tear and statement Mary had said about John.

Beatrice refused to give her the satisfaction. She wasn't that sort of friend.

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad to hear that." Gerri finally gushed, realizing Beatrice wasn't going to talk and rushing to fill the void before it became obvious. Even more so than it already was- at least to Beatrice. "I was worried about you. Kate, Tessa, and I were completely miserable last night, thinking about you and Mary and all the pain she must've been going through." There was a pregnant pause, enough of a silence to sound ominous before, in a hushed, anxious voice: "How _is_ Mary?"

Beatrice's lips tightened in annoyance, hearing the excited tremble in Gerri's voice beneath her "concern." No doubt she'd be rushing off to phone up the rest of her "friends" just as soon as she was done extracting all the information she could from Beatrice.

Beatrice had never understood why Mary insisted on keeping Gerri's shallow friendship but she supposed it was somewhat plausible. The two had been _friends_ (Beatrice rolled her eyes even thinking that word) since high school. She supposed some habits were just hard to break.

However unpleasant and mean-spirited they were.

"She's been better, obviously." Beatrice finally said, carefully weighing her words before she spoke, determined not to give Gerri anything to use as fodder for gossip. "Very upset, but that's to be expected after yesterday."

"Of course it is! _Poor thing_." Gerri crooned, setting Beatrice's teeth on edge. "I could cry thinking of her right now and the pain she must be feeling. The heartbreak. _How_ John could do that to her is just… It's unspeakably cruel. He really did leave with Sherlock_?"_

Beatrice rolled her eyes again. "Mycroft Holmes said so."

"You actually heard him say it?"

"Yes. He was the one who came and told us before he made the announcement to everyone else."

Gerri snorted. "The nerve of him! I mean, his brother runs off with the groom and then he has the cheek to come in and tell Mary about it? I bet he was unbearably gloating and smug. He looks the type- smarmy."

"Not at all." Beatrice said, not feeling particularly partial to either of the Holmes brothers but Mycroft Holmes had been, all things considered, a perfect gentleman. Nice. Helpful. Irritating in his calmness when everyone else was upset but if that was the worst she had to accuse him of- besides being the sibling to He Who Shall Not Be Named- it wasn't enough to slander him. "He was nice."

"_Nice_? Please, Beatrice, don't be naive."

"He was! It's not his fault John ran off with his brother. I'm not willing to believe Mycroft arranged all of it in some Doctor Evil sort of way. And at least he had the decency to tell Mary about it."

"Is that all he said? That John ran off with Sherlock?"

_I witnessed the two of them kissing in the vestibule and then leaving, hand in hand, by a side entrance._

"Yeah. Yeah, that's all he said."

"Seriously? There wasn't a note? John didn't ring Mary up or even send a text? He just _left_?"

"Yeah."

Gerri made a soft, disgusted noise. "I can't believe it. I simply _cannot believe it_. Mary and John were so much in love? I was…well, I was always rather envious of them, in a way. They seemed perfect together and John doted on Mary?"

Beatrice raised her eyes heavenward in a plea for Divine help, praying for patience to deal with stupid, bitchy people. She wasn't as oblivious and empty-headed as Gerri obviously thought she was. The discreet prodding for her to spill everything she knew about Mary and John's relationship in contradiction to what Gerri thought was as obvious as a flashing red neon sign.

"What John did…you can safely say it surprised everyone." Which was a flagrant lie. More than one person had thought there was more to John and Sherlock than friendship, but Beatrice shoved that thought away. She had no compunction in lying to Gerri.

There was more silence. A breathless wait for juicy information.

What does she expect me to say, Beatrice wondered, exasperated. _Oh, yes, Gerri! Well, you do know that John lost all interest in Mary once Sherlock came back. It was obvious to everyone there was something more to their "friendship" and we all thought they were shagging for weeks now. No doubt they shagged all of last night while Mary was crying her eyes out on my shoulder._

Beatrice, angered by her own thoughts, pursed her lips and glared.

"Has Mary heard from him _at all_?" Gerri finally asked, her tone the tiniest bit sharp, aggravation that she wasn't getting the information she wanted bleeding through. Beatrice smirked.

"I really don't know. You'll have to call and ask Mary yourself. _Later_. She's sleeping right now."

"She's staying with you?"

"Fuck." Beatrice silently mouthed from the phone. She's let that one slip. "Just for the time being while she gets things sorted out. She didn't want to stay at their flat last night- for obvious reasons." She explained, hoping to put an end to it but knowing better.

"_Oh_?"

Beatrice was mildly impressed such keen interest could be loaded into a single, short syllable.

"_Yes_." She replied shortly, grinding her teeth.

"Well. Mary's lucky to have such a good _friend_ in you, Bea." Gerri cut in breezily. "I'll let you go, darling, but I'll ring later to check on Mary, yeah?"

"Of course." Beatrice said in her happiest voice before ending the call, resolving to check the caller id next time and avoid such _kindly_ concern.

She tossed her phone onto the countertop, and made herself a late breakfast, all the while running over their conversation in her head, questioning some of the things she'd said and hoping she hadn't given too much away.

Of course, knowing Gerri, she wouldn't have needed to say _anything_ for her to have information to gossip over.

* * *

"Interesting wedding?"

Greg glanced up from his paperwork to find Donovan leaning against his office door, clutching a newspaper to her chest and smirking.

"You could say that." He muttered, going back to his reports. He hadn't progressed very far, to be honest, even though he'd been working on them since that morning. His mind was a million miles away, running over the events of yesterday, debating when would be a good time to call John- not to gossip, Greg told himself. He wasn't a twenty-something bimbo keen to hear the latest gossip about yesterday. He just wanted to talk, see if John was ok, maybe see if he wanted to get away and go out for drinks later, unwind a little. Benign, friend stuff.

When he did manage to stop wondering about yesterday though, then thoughts of _last night_ came to the fore. And those were more than a little distracting.

It was embarrassing. He was an over- forty Detective Inspector, for Christ sake, not some moony, hormone-riddled teenager.

Greg chalked it up that he was just having an off day and let it rest.

"Thought so."

The smack of the newspaper hitting his reports made Greg wince and he gave Donovan an annoyed frown before looking at the headline.

"You're not serious."

"One hundred percent. You didn't tell me about this this morning."

Because it's not your business, Greg thought as he scanned the article- an "exclusive" of yesterday's botched marriage and the "runaway blogger."

Granted, the article was in the Living & Life section where the newspaper put most of the dishy news on celebrities and general gossip, not the front page or anything, but it was still there, in black and white. And if it'd made it to print, then it was definitely on the internet as well. And this newspaper probably wasn't the only one who'd picked up the story.

Well, Greg thought, this was an unexpected spanner in the works.

But he felt he really shouldn't be surprised. Sherlock had always been a good news story on a slow day, what with his bizarre cases and the popularity of John's blog. And ever since Sherlock's "return" he'd been treated as a minor celebrity around London, his cases covered in the news, his annoyed, partially concealed face occasionally showing up around the internet when people spotted him out working a case.

The fact that yesterday had shown up in the newspaper seemed a step too far, though. Following him when he was on a case was one thing, this…this was personal, private. And it involved John as well- though, as the article dubbed him Sherlock's "always faithful close friend and blogger" it seemed they felt the two men came as a package deal. Which maybe wasn't that far off the mark.

The newspaper had managed to dig up an old photo of John and Sherlock and for the life of him, Greg couldn't place the case they'd been on, but he was fairly sure it had been taken before Sherlock had left for the simple reason that John didn't look at Sherlock like that these days- a combination of happiness and annoyed fondness mixed with the strong urge to throttle his friend.

"Well-informed source." Greg mumbled, frowning at the sentence wherein the writer claimed they'd had an 'in' at the wedding. "Who the hell was their source?"


End file.
